A Gift

Today is my mom’s birthday.

I am so thankful for her.

Our relationship has not been easy—

and that’s an understatement.

It’s hard to explain what it’s like to grow up with a mom, but not.

To live with years of longing. Of hoping.

Of getting small tastes here and there—

just enough to believe it might finally happen.

And then losing it again.

There were years of forgiving.

Of resetting expectations.

Of learning how to love without guarantees.

Of holding space for mental illness, poor coping mechanisms,

and life—while quietly carrying my own sadness and hurt alongside it.

More than once.

There is a particular kind of grief in that.

A quiet, confusing one.

The grief of loving someone who is still alive.

The grief of longing for something that exists in theory but not consistently in practice.

And then—something shifted.

Over the last couple of years, I have been given a gift I never knew if I would receive.

My mom has been there for me.

Consistently.

She comes up and keeps me company.

She calls to check on me.

She shows up.

She has laid next to me in bed and held my hand while I cried.

I don’t have words big enough for what that means.

Only this:

I am deeply, profoundly thankful that I finally get to have a mom.

Not the fantasy version.

Not the someday version.

The real one.

Here.

Now.

Today.