More Than A Mother

I could not even begin to understand what it means to be a mother. But what I can understand—and deeply empathize with—is the feeling of being trapped in a single identity and feeling forced to present only that identity to the world when, in reality, there's so much more to you than meets the eye.

I know quite a lot about my mother's lifestyle—her favorite snacks, TV shows, and hobbies. But when I'm honest with myself, I realize I don't actually know much about who my mother is deep down. This isn't entirely my fault. My mother—and, I believe, many parents—subscribed to the belief that they’re not supposed to share their intimate, inner worlds with their children, either to protect the children or to protect themselves from being viewed differently by them.

From a child’s point of view, parenthood often seems to put parents on a kind of perpetual power trip, simply because they have near-total control over their kids' lives. And in my experience, part of maintaining that control involves withholding personal information—especially anything that might make the parent seem flawed, uncertain, or less in control than they want their kids to believe.

So while one of my biggest regrets is not asking my mother more about her inner world while I had the chance to do it in person, a part of me knows she probably wouldn't have shared it anyway. Perhaps being able to open up in that way—to be vulnerable with the very beings she was most committed to protecting—required a level of healing she never had the opportunity to receive before leaving her body.

I may never fully understand what it means to be a mother, but what I do deeply understand is the human condition. And becoming a mother does not make one exempt from the human condition. On the contrary, I’d be willing to bet that becoming a mother makes one more aware of it—because with motherhood, you’re granted the opportunity to watch life from its origin and, sometimes, unfortunately, to also experience the grief and pain of watching that same life you brought into the world leave it.

My grandmother turned 91 yesterday, and she’s had the unimaginable pain of burying three of her children over the course of her lifetime. I remember when my Aunt Tracy died back in 2002—it was the first time I’d ever heard my grandmother cry. It was one of the most guttural, intense, and terrifying sounds I’ve ever heard. It was a pain I couldn’t fathom then and likely still haven’t come close to experiencing—and honestly, I hope I never will.

A part of me truly believes that the conspiracy—conscious and unconscious—that men support by perpetuating the idea that women are the weaker sex exists precisely because, deep down, we all know that women endure a level of pain that most men would crumble under. Not just the pain of childbirth, but the pain of sacrificing your own hopes, dreams, goals, ambitions, body, and mind so that your children might suffer less and experience more joy than you ever could. The pain of slowly sinking into obscurity as society, your children, and perhaps even your partner no longer desire you the way they once did—because your vessel has fulfilled its purpose in their eyes.

And I’d just like to say: I think it’s not only okay, but a radical act of self-love for a mother to say, “I’ll give you my body, but not my soul.” I think it’s a radical act of self-love for a mother to not only accept but embrace the truth that she is so much more than a mother—and to refuse to let her children, her partner, or anyone else pressure her into showing up as only one version of herself.

I think it’s a radical act of self-love to reject society’s narrow idea of what a mother should be—or rather, that a mother is all that a woman can be. Instead of losing your vast self to a small (yet sacred) role, it’s powerful to assert: “Mother is part of what I am, but not all that I am.” And then to commit each day to showing yourself—and the world—that you contain multitudes.

I really wish I could have gotten to know Dee Dee (my mother) more while I had the chance. I wish she had felt safe enough to embrace that curiosity instead of fearing how I might look at her if I saw her imperfections. What she didn’t realize is that seeing her imperfections would have made me respect her far more than the “motherly image” she upheld just to feel like she was right.

Faith Provider

I recently watched a podcast featuring Cree Summer, who’s probably best known for her role on A Different World and as the voice of Susie on my favorite childhood show growing up, Rugrats. She shared a lot of insightful reflections on love, sex, and relationships from the perspective of being a single, older mother in her mid-fifties. But what I found most interesting about the conversation was what she said about safety—and about losing sexual attraction to men who didn’t make her feel safe. Though probably not safe in the way you're assuming.

It’s well known that men are expected to be providers in modern society, and to most people, “providing” means always having enough money to meet every need and most wants—for yourself and your dependents. I think this is why so many modern women are obsessed with how much money a man makes: because in their minds, more money equals more security, and more security equals more safety.

But Cree had a different perspective on what it means to provide—one that I found refreshing and deeply resonant. She talked about how her father always made her feel safe, even though they didn’t have much money growing up. It was because when shit hit the fan, he never freaked out. Instead, he got excited. He saw challenges as opportunities for the family to overcome together and grow closer in the process.

Her father made her feel safe not because he always had enough money to buy his way out of problems, but because he always had enough zeal, faith, hope, and the mindset to figure things out. And because he never panicked, she never felt the need to either. She contrasted this with romantic relationships she had in the past, where the men she was with seemed lost and hopeless when challenges arose—which, understandably, made her feel anxious and, ultimately, less sexually attracted to them.

This inspired me to reflect on my own childhood and the fact that I often didn’t feel safe growing up—because my mother had a habit of constantly reminding us that we were poor. That she was broke. That she didn’t know how we were going to eat that day (though I honestly can’t recall a day when we didn’t).

But what I wish my mother had understood is what Cree articulated so beautifully: we didn’t need to always have money to feel safe. Having each other was enough. I wish my mother had more appreciation for her own tenacity, resourcefulness, and determination—because even though we never had a lot of money, we had her. And that could have been enough for us to feel safe, if she had felt safe in herself.

Now, I totally understand how difficult it probably was for her to feel safe as a single mother who seemingly had all the odds stacked against her. And I don’t want this to come across as judgment—because she certainly deserved more support than she received from the men she had children with. But my point is this: parents are their children’s heroes by default. And I think a large part of my mother’s stress came from feeling like she had to fight alone—not only to make sure my brothers and I survived, but also to ensure that we always viewed her as this solid rock who was serious about providing.

When, in reality, if she had been able to take a more lighthearted approach to the challenges we faced, we likely would have adopted a more lighthearted perspective on them too.

Money is incredibly important in a capitalistic society—I’d never deny that. But I think we often overestimate how important money is when it comes to creating a true sense of security. I’ve read that one of the major contributing factors to postpartum depression is the mother feeling unsupported in the battle that is those early years of motherhood, even when she has a partner who can buy whatever the child needs.

And I think what many mothers, women, and children truly want in order to feel safe is not just someone who always has enough money—but someone they can rely on to bravely face life head-on. Someone they trust to be in the trenches with them—physically, mentally, and especially emotionally.

The entire conservation between Shan Boody and Cree Summers is great and you can watch the whole thing below.

Direct Link: https://youtu.be/-jES2iT2l4o?si=jXpi2kt1YD5eeyR4

Too Cool For My Mama

It’s not incidental that the vast majority of pictures I share of my mother and me are from my childhood. That’s because, around the time I hit my teenage years, I became too cool to take pictures with my mama. And that’s another one of my biggest regrets.

We never know when it’ll be too late—to take another picture, to share another laugh, to give another hug, to see another smile. So I implore you: if you have the chance, take pictures with your mama while you still can. Because you never know which one will be your last.

Here’s the last picture I ever took with my mother. It’s not one I particularly like, but it’s the one I’ve got—along with something I wrote for her birthday on Instagram back in January of 2020.

Somewhere along the way, I got too cool for my mama.

Too cool to hug her.

Too cool to tell her I loved her.

Too cool to call or visit regularly.

Too grown.

Too smart.

I knew so much.

I knew too much.

I had so much to do.

I had to go get “it”. I moved halfway across the country twice looking for “it”. And when I didn’t find “it”, you always welcomed me back home.

You and Granny used to call me “The Prodigal Son” and only recently has the true meaning of that parable revealed itself to me.

Which is that the ‘it” I was looking for out there was always with me.

The “it” I was dying to find was always right in front of my face. “It” was always right where I began — at home.

It took me learning that you could be leaving to realize that I only wanted “it” so that I could give “it” to you.

But you never asked me for “it”. In hindsight, you never asked me for much.

Just to be appreciated.

And the plan always was to appreciate you — later.

After I got finished conquering the world.

Well “later” has become “now”

And I appreciate you so much now.

And although I know everything happens as it must.

I still can’t help but wonder sometimes how much of you I missed out on from being too cool.

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Happy birthday, Ma. I’m so grateful for your contributions to making me “cool” but I’m even more grateful for the sacrifice you made that led me to giving “cool” up.

Thanks for showing me that being “cool” is an empty endeavor.

And that instead, I should just be happy 💜

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers—and to all the women and men who play mothering roles—and to all those who are mothers in spirit but don’t have children of their own. Because, in my experience, you don’t have to birth something to be a mother. You only have to commit to the growth of something outside of yourself.

I know relationships with parents can be some of the hardest we’ll ever have. But if you can, call your mother today. Maybe even ask her something about herself—something that goes deeper than her role as “mother.” I’m sure she’d be delighted to share, and you might just be delighted by what you discover.

With love,

Micheal Sinclair 💜