I grew up in Guyana, where cultural norms set the tone for my mother’s parenting and led to plenty of friction in my teen and young adult years — friction that needed time and perspective to soften.
Back then, the rule was simple: children were to be seen and not heard. That didn’t sit well with me. I came out of the womb a free spirit who prized autonomy and wanted an empowered voice. Clashes were inevitable. My orientation was incompatible with what I saw as heavy-handed, authoritarian parenting.
Fortunately, reason and time eased my anger. What I couldn’t see then was that Mom was doing her best to parent from the only framework she knew — from her own lived experience.
Now that Mom is 90, my days with her feel like borrowed time I don’t dare take for granted. I find myself more aware, wanting to slow time down, eager to savor and absorb everything.
I’ve found grace in forgiveness
As I matured and became exposed to travel, literature, and new ways of seeing people and their choices, I began to understand how cultural conditioning and limited education had shaped Mom. She had simply imitated what had been modeled for her.
My own education and exposure helped me look past my early judgments and see how profoundly environment shapes behavior. Mom had lived within strictly paternalistic rhythms, armed with only a fifth-grade education.
That realization softened me. What used to be disappointment became a gentler understanding. I saw that in her place, I might have made the same choices. This thought alone lifted something heavy. It gave me space to replace resentment with compassion and finally see my mother fully without holding the examples she repeated against her.
I now hold onto our rituals
Mom lives with me now, and we’ve developed rituals that are deeply satisfying and sustaining.
We have a nightly date to watch “Jeopardy.” We also make time to share warm plates of delicious curry and rice or my famed mac and cheese. I also enjoy revisiting old recipes that prompt me to call on Mom for guidance.
Courtesy of Wendy Woolfork
It seems I taste the history in every bite, as I remember all the meals she once stretched to feed us when there was little to go around.
We also connect over music now. Our long drives through winding country roads — with Bob Marley or Marc Anthony’s “Si Te Vas” playing — are gifts I get to unwrap twice: once in the moment and again later, as a memory.
A few months ago, my mom and I saw singer Lauren Daigle in concert — an experience Mom still talks about with delight. I won’t soon forget it either.
I’m holding onto these last moments with my mother
I often wake up to the sound of my mother praying out loud. It’s the sweetest alarm clock I could ever ask for. I cherish these moments, knowing there will come a day when I’d give anything to hear such a sound.
So I’m savoring it all greedily: the shared moments, the music, the quiet companionship, the chance to rub lotion on her feet or massage arthritic shoulders when the pain is overwhelming, the gratitude for my ability to outgrow old resentments and take a more expansive and empathetic view of our lives.
After everything we’ve gone through, it feels like a wondrous miracle to simply love my mother and be loved by her — freely and without reservations.
