To my mother,

Earlier this week, one of my roommates asked me what my TED Talk topic of choice would be if I were to deliver one. The three of us were sitting in the living room, the space filled with the soft glow of ambient lighting expelled from salt rock lamps and stained glass bulbs, and the gentle sound of jazz playing from one of their phones. Taylor had posed the question to the room. One of my favorite things about her was her questions: What mantra do you live by? What YouTube videos were you exposed to when you were young? What is your favorite trait about yourself? She asked questions that were uniquely personal in a way to grow closer to people, but she would never answer them herself unless pushed. She looked at us from above her computer screen, her fingertips pressed together in an inquisitive, philosophical manner. I looked to Jalyn, our other roommate, to allow her to respond first. She paused for several moments, muttering “I don’t know” and disconnected ideas she quickly dismissed. Unsure and wanting to craft a profound answer, she passed the question off to me. I had my answer within seconds–independence–, and I said it just as quickly. Taylor pushed me on my response, wanting specificity; that took more time. I knew quickly I would like to preach independence, but what did I have to say? 

Then, I thought about what independence means to me personally–how it is a dedication to myself and my own enrichment, that my success is only measurable by my own standards and not the comparisons of those around me, and that I am completely capable of navigating my life with or without another person. I voiced these ideas, and they were met with “oohs” and “ahhs,” as though what I had said was revolutionary when, in truth, it was simply a dissected definition of the word. Taylor asked me where I had acquired such an ideology, and upon instinct, I thought about you. I thought about motherhood.

You went through years of schooling to attain your degrees in psychology. You and Dad scrounged together every cent you had in your fervent endeavors to pursue your passions and further your education. In a minuscule apartment, three wingspans wide, you sat hunched over a desk plastered with case studies and a deconstructed manual of the DSM-5 in a darkened bedroom, feverishly devoted to your studies. I thought about the stories you told me about the children you worked with–the ones who had been abandoned by adults, teachers, and parents alike–from the physically abused to the mentally challenged. I thought about the heightened inflection in your voice when you discuss various topics in psychology and the way you sit up when relaying a memory from the schools you attended.

But then I thought about what comes after. The self-deprecative “Back when I was a psychologist” and “Of course, I’m not doing anything with those degrees now.” I thought about the way your smile fades when you finish telling me your memories or when others are not listening at all. I would think about the fact that you are a breath away from a doctorate, but you stopped it all to be a mother. You put your life, aspirations, and dreams on hold to raise your children. You deemed it more necessary to be with us than to live your life, and for that, I am so sorry. Your sacrifice was never rewarded with medals or certificates, but you found fulfillment in our success. I just want you to know, however, that you are just as deserving of the life you want as we are, but I don’t think you have ever allowed yourself to feel that way.

I tried to express this idea to my roommates: how watching you give up everything crafted my definition of independence. My explanation was broad and vague: too often, women define “success” and “satisfaction” by the family they start, but they lose themselves to that. This was not an original idea, but you had, in your own way, taught me not to fall victim to this. As I explained my answer, I told them about how, in elementary school, when boys would pull my hair and tease me in a way to flirt, you rejected the dogma of “if he’s mean to you, he just likes you” and would tell me not to equate someone’s mistreatment of myself as anything other than disrespect. I mentioned how, in middle school, when girls I had been friends with for years suddenly turned their backs on me, you told me that people would show me who they truly were through action, which is always better than not knowing. I told them how, in high school, when I was feeling the pressures of my classes, you told me to trust myself and my abilities because I was a capable and determined person. 

I told them the things you preached, but I did not tell them the things you said in passing. 

I did not mention the way you pleaded to never rely on a man to support me; that love is great, but I needed to be a self-sufficient woman with her own job and her own money. I did not share that the first lesson I remember being taught was to “never let anyone see me cry” because it was a sign of weakness, and people would gain satisfaction from seeing that they affected me. I did not express the fact that you have often mentioned your regret in never returning to work after having children, and how you, above all else, have constantly told me to never stop pursuing the life I am meant to achieve, regardless of relationships or familial obstacles. Some people may think those are not healthy ideals to uphold, but they shaped me as a person. Your preachings to be my own person, untethered from the desire to garner acceptance or satisfaction from those around me, and the capability to handle things on my own, instilled in me a sense of independence that rattles the people around me. 

I did not say this in so many words, and I probably did not give my answer the justice it deserved, but you taught me values I think so many women need to hear. We are so much more than wives and mothers; we are minds dedicated to passionately chasing after the life we want, and our sense of success or pride should be defined by our own standards, beyond partners and children. I am sorry you never got to live the ideals you ingrained in me, but I will spend my entire life upholding them for myself because it is what you sacrificed everything for. You gave me your independence the second I was born, and I will carry it with me to my grave.