4 Times My Mother Helped Me Become a Better Person

I watch her take a seat at the piano. It’s old and slightly out of tune, but it still works. Her fingers dance over the keys as she starts to sing,

“Moon River, wider than a mile. I’m crossing you in style, someday.”

She’s a small woman, no more than 5’3”. She is older now. But her voice fills her tiny apartment. She plays by ear. I am tone-deaf and not sure what happened as she has so much musical talent to share.

Her eyes are twinkling, and she is lost in the music.

As I listen, I forget about the past. Gone are her struggles with illness and all the years she stayed with my father despite the drinking. Gone are jobs she took on for sub-par wages so she could make ends meet as a single mom.

At this moment, it is just about the music.

And I can’t help but marvel at what an incredible lady she is and how much she has taught me along the way.

This woman is a fighter and a giver. She is whip-smart and doesn’t mince words. But more than that, she is my mom.

Failure Happens to All of Us. It’s What We Do Next That Counts.

I’m shaking. Crying. My blue dress with its red fringe is soaked and looking down, I can see that it is a mess. I can’t believe this is happening.

“Breathe,” my mom tells me. “You are going to get through this.”

She marches me from the doors leading to the auditorium filled with people over to my locker. Rummaging inside, she pulls out my green shorts and my yellow t-shirt. They are slightly damp and tinged with sweat. My gym clothes.

I look at my mom in horror. She is really going to make me do this.

We find the nearest bathroom and she yanks off my wet, pee-stained dress. I am kicking myself. How? How did I let this happen? Why didn’t I go to the loo before the elocution contest began?

My mom hands me the clothes and I pull them on, filled with dread. I know what’s coming. I’m hoping she doesn’t say the words, but they come anyway, forcing me to suck in a sharp breath of air and hold it.

“I want you to get back out there Courtney.”

“But mom,” I protest, my chubby 8-year old cheeks wobbling, tears filling my eyes, “They all saw me. Everyone will all laugh at me.”

“They can only make you feel bad if you let them. Now, are we ready?”

By we, I knew she meant me. I trudged back to the auditorium listening to the hush all around me as I got back on that stage. Every student in the school was watching me. My face was on fire as I began to recite, “The Spider and the Fly” for a second time.

I received a special award for going back on stage that day. I was also mercilessly teased by the other kids in the school for the next year. One boy even gifted me a diaper. I was mortified.

But I held my head up and remembered my mom’s words. I knew she was right. My epic disaster was a failure of spectacular proportions, but no one seemed to care about it as much as I did. In fact, in time, no one thought to mention it at all.

I stopped worrying about the comments. I decided that I was not going to let my life be defined by my mistakes. I would learn from them. Sure. But failure was not going to hold me back.

Being okay with failure did not come naturally to me. But my mom helped me internalize this. She showed me that it is more important to focus on what you do next after you fail. Ultimately you can run and hide. You can get angry. Or you can throw on your best gym clothes and take another run at it.

Giving Freely Means Doing So Without Expecting Anything in Return

It’s snowing again today, and the wind is anxiously howling in the distance. We can barely see the cars in front of us as we make our way through the slush-filled streets.

I’m cold and hungry and can’t for the life of me understand what we are doing out here.

“Mom, it’s Christmas Eve. Shouldn’t we be at home getting ready for Santa?”

My mom looks over at me and smiles. When she smiles the whole world lights up. Her blue eyes are twinkling. I can tell she is right where she wants to be. She pats my leg and says,

“We’ll be back soon. We just have to drop this off first.”

She pats the warm box that is sitting on my lap. I look down and see the words, “Happy Holidays” written across the top of it in red and silver letters.

Our car comes to a sudden halt.

“Let’s go, Courtney,” she says to me. We stomp out into the snow and peer up at a tall, run-down brick building before grabbing the box and heading inside.

The elevator smells like urine, but this doesn’t dampen my mom’s mood. We get off on the 30th floor and find ourselves in front of a door at the end of the hall.

“Meals on Wheels,” my mom calls out.

A door opens and a grumpy-looking man greets us. He looks unkempt and a wooden cane is firmly gripped in his right hand. He grabs his box, turns, and slams the door before we even get the chance to say, “Merry Christmas.”

I turn to my mom. “He didn’t say thank you.”

She seems unfazed, “True. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t grateful.”

I have often thought about that man, alone and disheveled on Christmas Eve. He was an abandoned soul with no one to celebrate with having to rely on a box for his meal. It’s true, he didn’t say thank you. But to my mother, this didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was able to help him. And even though he didn’t show his appreciation, she knew he was grateful.

My mom didn’t chair volunteer committees or attend the PTA. She was the helper that no one ever noticed. Some people, like the man we met, were gruff and curt. Others were warm and effusive. But over the years she took time to help them all by volunteering for the Suicide Hotline and the Salvation Army.

She taught me that helping others is not about what you get in return. It’s about what you can do for others. And she also taught me that this simple act has the added benefit of making us feel better too.

This is why my mom had such a big smile on her face, despite driving through a snowstorm on Christmas Eve, all those years ago.

Just Because Someone is Vulnerable Doesn’t Mean They Are Weak

I dial her number, determined to sound cheerful.

She has been this way for too long. She deserves better. It’s not as though she isn’t fortunate, she is. She has the three of us. Only I am living in Japan, thousands of miles away.

“Hi, mom. How are you doing today?” I ask, hopeful that today will be different.

I wait as the seconds stretch out uncomfortably. Finally, she answers. She sounds broken, like a wounded bird.

“I’m struggling Courtney. Every day is so hard.”

Her voice is faint. Listless. Depression has a way of doing this to people. It tears even the best of us down and wraps us in chains that suffocate and bind.

I am oblivious to just how hard it is though. It’s not something I’ve experienced yet.

“What about getting a dog?” I query, thinking she just needs to get out of her funk.

She doesn’t answer right away. I fear I’m losing her. I just want her to fight. Surely if she fights this, she can get better.

At the time, I knew very little about depression. I thought my mom was weak because she wasn’t getting better. I mistakenly believed that if she wanted to be healthy and happy again, that she could get there through sheer willpower. But mental illness is not so simple. It wraps its arms around you and holds on for dear life.

I learned my mom wasn’t weak. In fact, just the opposite. She was Superman. Like Superman she got up day after day and donned her cape, preparing to fight the good fight. And like Superman, my mom valiantly took on the bad guys, aka her own personal demons.

Fortunately, she recovered and came back to us. Despite all her struggles, she prevailed. And to this day, she is and will always be my hero.

Through this experience, my mom opened my eyes to the struggles of individuals with mental health challenges. She showed me that we are all fragile and vulnerable.

But this fragility doesn’t make us weak. Rather, it makes us human. My mom taught me that by recognizing and celebrating our vulnerabilities, we can become stronger as a society and a workforce. So, I try to celebrate these every day.

It’s easy really. You just have to treat people with decency and respect. Like humans. We are not cogs in a wheel or numbers on a timecard. Rather we are people—vulnerable, raw, and real.

Never Assume Anything About Anyone

Stella is toddling across the floor. I’ve got her dressed in capris and a t-shirt. Her enormous blue eyes catch sight of something her grandmother is holding. It’s a big blue bag.

I peek inside and shake my head. “Mom, she won’t wear that.”

My mom is not convinced. She purses her lips. She has a mischievous look in her eyes. Why am I not surprised? She never takes no for an answer, so I know this time will be no different.

Stella wanders closer to my mom, holding a ball that she can barely get her little arms around.

“What have you got in the bag grandma,” she asks.

I sigh. I know my daughter and she doesn’t do dresses. She’s three and has never worn a dress in her life.

“It’s a present for you Stella,” my mom throws out casually.

Only I know my mom and she is anything but casual.

Stella beelines over to the bag and pulls out a beautiful dress. It’s deep green with white, lilac and teal flowers and a green sash. I expect her to place it back in the bag in favor of her ball. But she doesn’t.

My mom takes her by the hand and leads her up the stairs to her room to get changed.

Five minutes later Stella reappears in the kitchen looking adorable. My little tomboy has transformed into a girly girl. She twirls in circles watching the crinoline and green fabric billow and fly through the air. She laughs in delight.

My mother claps her hands and encourages Stella to twirl some more.

“Stella you look like a princess,” she says.

It’s true. She does.

I stand off to the side speechless, marveling at the scene unfolding before my eyes.

Never assume you know what people are thinking or what they want. My mother had taught me this lesson on numerous occasions. Only I clearly hadn’t heard her the first 20 times. But in this room with my daughter dancing in delight, this lesson was hard to ignore.

I had assumed that Stella didn’t like dresses, simply because I didn’t really like dresses. I had imposed my likes and desires on her without really understanding what she wanted at all. It’s a common mistake that many of us make. After all, we tend to gravitate to things and people that are familiar to us. We assume if people look like us, then naturally they will think like us.

But this is never the case. My mom knew this. And it is such an important life skill. Keeping an open mind has helped me in business and life. It’s also been critical for me as I have watched my two kids grow into independent teenagers who both have very different views of what they want out of life and what makes them happy.

A Final Parting Note

My mom’s fingers slow as she hits the final keys. The melody to Moon River fades, and she turns around to face me.

Her eyes are shining as I walk over and perch next to her on the piano bench.

“That was beautiful mom,” I say.

She smiles. It’s such a hopeful, melancholic, and reflective tune. And it's reflective of most of our lives. Perhaps that’s why she likes it so much. She’s a dreamer who has experienced heartbreak. She has been off to see the world. And yet she knows there is still so much to see, experience, and do.

Sadly, her piano no longer plays that tune. My mom is no longer here. But her memories and her lessons remain.

She didn’t have an easy life. She wasn’t the perfect mom. She made her fair share of mistakes. But is that so different from so many women out there today?

We are all flawed and yet we are still amazing women, mothers and members of society. We need to celebrate this.

I will always celebrate my mother and everything she taught me. She was my hero. She was a boss mom in every sense of the word.

And like Moon River, her memories will continue to play on.

Thank you for reading.