Experiences - Pt. 3: A Girls Best Friend

Growing up, my mom was my best friend. We did everything together; partially because I was young and had to go everywhere she went but also because I wanted to be there. We had so much in common, we were so alike. We had the same favorite color, same favorite music, same style, same sense of humor. I felt like she was the Lorelai to my Rory, my very own version of Gilmore Girls. Even when I was a teenager we were close even though I was a lot to handle but she stood by me and supported me. I told her everything and she would share with me too. I shared everything from my current boyfriend to what topic to choose for an essay. 

My first taste of freedom was when I turned 18. Curfews and expectations of a minor in my mothers house had fallen away and I was left with a newfound zest for life, I liked having this idea that I could do what I wanted but really had no desire to do so. After all, I was my mother’s child. I went through many trials from ages 18-20 and had many dark periods where no one could reach me. My mother did. She was always there supporting me and urging me to be safe and to be better for my future self. We were still so alike and I loved that about us. I thought I had finally found out who I was going to be, maybe a little different than my mom but we got along so well that it felt right, comfortable. 

When I left home and moved away for college the second time things changed. I was independent, truly independent, for the first time in my life and I was scared. How would I make friends? I’d known my best friend since birth, she was built in. What would people think of me? I didn't even know who I was. Would they like me? I was always in my own comfortable bubble, hidden away from jeering eyes. Would I survive the change? I was hardly independent, I felt like I wouldn’t make it in the real world on my own.

In my first few weeks out of my home I learned a lot, mostly about myself and what is perceived as the real world. There were small things like coming to the realization that I don’t actually like country music and bigger things like learning that alcohol isn't the demon my mothers religion made it out to be. I was so lost, but also finding my way. My mother and I no longer saw eye to eye. We were no longer one in the same. I felt like a part of me, the real me, had been glossed over my entire life. A loss is a loss, it's hard all the same. Over the next year I changed into a version of myself that younger me would not have recognized. Looking back felt foreign to me, it felt fake. My mom was this amazing, inspiring face of nature, why didn’t I want to be like her? I loved her with everything I had and now I felt lost in my own sea of doubt and confusion. I also felt lost without her by my side. I missed her, but how could I face her? I was unrecognizable even to myself. What would she think? 

For a while it was hard, we butted heads constantly. I wanted her help but I didn’t know what I needed. I didn't know how to express it in a way that sounded like I was not asking for the past to be the present. I didn't want that. F. Scott Fitzgerald taught me that you can never get back something that happened in the past, not in the same way at least (Great Gatsby). I had finally found myself, the real me, and I couldn’t go back. I just didn’t know how to thrive in my new reality. I began to drown in a sea of cerulean despair, I had no guidance when things happened and it only became more difficult, more stressful, more intense without her by my side anymore. We had become disconnected and while I was finally my own person I was missing something. 

When I finally moved back home it was strange to be back, I was terrified that I would never be able to connect with my mom in a way that felt true to myself and to our relationship. She was my person and we pushed one another away in the hopes that I would find myself, the real me. I did find myself again. I liked alternative music, I liked the color pink, I loved English instead of math, I wasn’t as conservative as I thought, I had my own style; I could admit it without feeling like I was disrespecting my mother for not becoming like her, the thing I was so sure would happen when I was younger. I came home and it felt awkward but also like a new beginning. We relearned how to be in each other's lives despite our differences. I love her with everything I have and I want her in my life. I am immensely grateful that she chose to be in mine. It is a privilege to know her, this headstrong powerhouse of a woman. 

We are different, so different. I am my own person now, a headstrong powerhouse of a woman in a completely different font and I am proud of it. I love the real me and I hope she does too. 

If you had a similar experience with someone I would love to hear about it:) you are all strong and beautiful and I wish love and happiness for you in every aspect of your life. If you have any comments, feedback, or anything you’d like to talk about then message me through email or socials!

Sincerely,

TH