Champion

Prior to these events, I feel as though I was rather hard on my mom.

We did not have it easy back then. Things were tough. It is hard to describe exactly the dynamics and the intricacies spawned by generational trauma. A sentiment I am confident many of my readers also understand.

My father is a loud and angry man. I was always tough on my mom for not pushing back enough to his antics.

It was not until after these events that it all clicked in my head: my mom is a champion. A survivor.

My mother is a competitor. And a winner.

Neatly stored away at her home in the most modest and humble way possible are her medals. Name a marathon—she has not only qualified for it, but she most likely has ran it twice, and placed for her age group.

She has birthed several babies without an epidural, pain medication, the works. Minutes after giving birth to me, her first daughter, she walked back to her hospital room from the delivery room.

Given the choice, my mom will always choose to stand up, to keep moving, and to fight.

I was hard on her.

For what feels like my entire life, I have held every relative of mine at arms distance. I have kept my heart far away from my family—to protect myself in a way.

Some people have teased me in the past for lacking the “optimistic” personality trait. I have a mug in my cabinet that has “OPTIMIST” written on it in big pink letters. It was a gag gift from someone years ago; they were insinuating that I am not that. An optimist.

However, in the good times and the bad, I always remind myself that everything happens for a reason. That is how I make sense of the world around me.

My quick gut reaction to all of this told me exactly why this was happening, why my mom has incurable cancer. The doctors tell us her cancer was a freak thing, how this developed. They said “it just happened”. My mom leads a very clean, healthy, and active lifestyle.

I knew almost immediately—whether I wanted to admit it to myself of not—this happened because I needed a reason to really see her and understand. I did not truly understand her, and she me.

My personality trait to assume the position of “black sheep” has most likely been passed down from my mom. She is incredibly kind, but she too goes against the grain. We actually have a lot more in common than I thought.

My defiant features, my desire to be authentic and independent, and my unwavering resiliency all stems from her.

My mother is a champion.

I look at myself in the mirror, I see my mom looking back at me.

My legs are long; they are an athlete’s legs. Those are also from my mom.

I have always been told I have beautiful hands. Mom.

I have traits and features and skills all over that I am lucky to be gifted with. They all come from her.

My mother is a champion who triumphs bravely through darkness.

I admire, appreciate, and acknowledge all of what I had previously failed to understand.

I dedicate this post and this blog—all of who I am—to her.