The waters that run between mothers and daughters are always troubled, or so I’ve heard. But the waters between my mother and I, more than troubled, are fierce and obliterating. We seldom find our ways to each other without being worse for the wear.

& so, Mother’s Day is difficult for me: here is the woman who carried me; flesh of my flesh; here is the woman who kept me alive and in her own home. And yet, it’s difficult for me to think of her without feeling angry.

In my personal journey toward allowing each of my parents to be real people (which also requires that I stop mythologizing my father), today, I’m choosing to honor Raquel for the person she is—rather than the mother she is.

& the thing about her worth celebrating is that Raquel is fucking fearless. I’ve never seen anything like it: there is no one she cowers to, there is nothing she runs away from. For all that she’s endured (a story hers alone to tell), she hasn’t let anything rob her of her capacity to be soft—& to be able to retain some softness in the face of so much adversity is admirable on its own.

Rocky is a tough broad & in spite of all of the ways that I have tried (& failed) to resist being like my mom, the truth is I’m better for having had a mom who took no shit. In my thirties, my mom’s ability to scale any obstacle is something I reach for more and more. In my weakest, I am reminded, both, of her perseverance and her well of vulnerability.