How My Mother Guided Me To Write My Life's Story

In the beginning

In the beginning, I was nothing, the mere possibility of something. In the beginning, I was just a soul in the Great Before, waiting in a space with no time for the universe to find me a match - a mother to birth me into being. That time before time was the primordial soup where the most important ingredients were mixed, the traits that would form my DNA. With an all-knowing hand, everything was put in place, for me to discover when time would start its flow. At last, the connection was found, but not all conditions were met, so I waited for a little longer until finally, it was time to become.

Becoming

After nine months in an intermediary, training station I was abruptly transported to a world of blinding colors, curious smells, and blaring sound. It took me a second to realize that the wail-like notes were coming from me. Oh, it must be the distress at my new surroundings. They warned me about this. But the overload stops as soon as I am put into a woman’s arms. Warm and soothing, she smells like fresh-cut grass, like home. How did I know that? Mother. This must be mother. Looking at me with tired eyes that held the most intense feeling of wonder, she holds me close and whispers sweet nothings, all the while broadcasting waves of endless love and something akin to gratitude. Curious that she’s alone, this doesn’t seem right. Hours pass before a very curly young man rushes into our chamber.

“Honey, I’m so sorry. They just called. I had no idea! Didn’t want to disturb me in the middle of the night, can you imagine?!”

He takes a steadying breath and just now seems to notice me. Approaching on silent feet, the man — my father, gently touches my cheek with a finger, looking completely mesmerized.

“It’s okay, dear. It seems that you can’t escape some things. How I dreaded having to deliver during the night, when the hospital is understaffed, with no visitors allowed, and lo and behold, our little nugget was determined to make a night-time appearance, after hours of intense labor. But she’s finally here.”

My parents continue their hushed conversation, but my eyes drift close, too tired after all the excitement of the night that slowly turned into day.

The last thing I’m aware of is the certainty that my mother has a spine of steel, a quiet strength that shines through, despite her weariness.

The early years

The first few years of my life were spent at my paternal grandparents, in a small mountain city. They told me that my parents loved me very much, but work kept them too busy to properly care for me, so at the tender age of 10 months, I was brought here, where they visited every other weekend. Life was good, but not quite whole. If they really loved me, we would all be together, right? There must be something wrong with me. Otherwise, how could they bear the sight of my tear-streaked face, two Sundays a month?

When I was about 6 years old I gathered the courage to ask my mother about this.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, baby. What is it?” she asks me gently, pulling me in her lap.

“How come you and Daddy don’t want me to stay with you? Am I… bad?”

“Sweetheart, no!” she fiercely declares, cradling my face. “Listen to me carefully, because it’s very important. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Your father and I love you dearly, there’s nothing on this world more precious to us.”

“Then why don’t you want me with you?” I ask, not convinced.

“But we do, baby. It’s excruciating to be apart, to see my only child for a few days a month, but there is no other way right now. We all have to be patient a little while longer, and in a year, when you’ll be old enough to start school, everything will be as it should, the three of us together.”

“Really?”

“I promise. You have no idea how hard it is for me to leave you here, but we have to do what’s best for you. You, my darling child, will always come first.”

Self-sacrifice

School years

As promised, soon enough we were reunited for good. School started and with it, plenty of lessons. The knowledge from the Great Before had long been starting to fade, replaced by all the new tidbits I encountered every day. How to read and write, to do sums and name the world’s capitals, how to make the bed and how to conduct myself in polite society. Many more too.

One day in middle school, I came home crying because some children had been mean to me, calling me names, and making fun of my more rounded figure. One look at my face and my mother stormed outside, on a crusade for justice. When she came back, we had a little talk.

“Sweetheart, today you learned that people can be cruel. Do not let their opinions define who you are. Stand tall and be yourself, proud of your capabilities. There will always be ones who want to belittle you, a consequence of their personal shortcomings. Only you can decide your limits and your fate. Write your own story and make it glorious.”

Self-confidence. And something more, a whisper of a long-forgotten string.

In the summer break before high school, I went to visit my maternal grandmother for a few days, a long-standing habit. It was always nice, like a vacation in a vacation, albeit in the same city. Long walks in the nearby park, tons of delicious cookies, movie nights, and stories; lots and lots of stories. One story, in particular, had a major impact, shocking me to the core. Like your typical teenager, I was complaining about something unpleasant mom made me do when grandma imparted this news.

“Be easy on your mother. She’s just pushing you to be the best because she has so much faith in you. A miracle child destined for greatness.”

“Sorry, miracle what?” I ask, shocked out of my sulking.

At this, grandma blinks a few times, appearing surprised by her own words. Squaring her shoulder, she continues.

“I think you’re old enough to know that you were not your parents’ first child. There were two others before. A miscarriage two months before term and a boy who died one day after he was born. Your brother.”

Astonished in the extreme, I can only utter another weak “What?”

“Yes, dear. That’s why you are the miracle child. A success story where two others had failed. Your pregnancy was very hard as well, your mother had to stay on bed rest for the last eight weeks to ensure a safe as possible delivery. But in the end, it worked out and you were born, pink-cheeked and healthy. So you see, on your shoulders rest more than your expectations, but the hopes placed on the ones before you.”

Resilience in the face of heartbreaking tragedy. The trait of a survivor.

College

I was quite a late bloomer, having had just one serious boyfriend in my early 20s. At the opposite end of the spectrum, one of my best friends was a gorgeous redhead, with a perfect figure and a magnetic presence that could attract any guy within a mile radius. Understandable, this sometimes sparked jealousy within me, which I confessed to my mother during one of our talks. Ever since that first serious discussion at the age of 6, we regularly talked about everything of importance, without fear of reprimand or judgment. Honesty above all else.

“Dearest, I know that at times it’s not easy to see your friend making all those conquests, but there’s an important takeaway here. Being courted is flattering, of course, however, just like the people around you don’t get to decide who you are, neither does a man. You need to stand on your own two feet, be independent, both financially and emotionally. Men can come and go, but you’ll always have yourself. That’s the relationship you need to focus on first.”

Independence

Adulthood

At the age of 27, I had my heart broken so badly by a fling in which I invested too much that the mere thought of love became appalling. Relationships sucked, intimacy was overrated, and vulnerability anathema. For weeks everything was a dark haze and life went by on auto-pilot, without focus. At the time, I was still living with my parents and after witnessing my wallowing for close to a month, my mother finally put me to the task.

“Honey, being hurt in love is no joking matter, but please don’t shut yourself to it because of one bad experience. I’d hate to see you jaded and numb, rejecting the possibility of great happiness because of fear.”

“I hate to disappoint you, mother, but I don’t want to feel like this ever again. It sucks. If my heart gets encased in ice in the process, so be it.”

“Darling, hear me out.” she continues gently, but firmly. “Life is not fail-proof. We all make mistakes and understanding the lesson behind a setback is what makes us move ahead. Nobody wants to feel pain or sadness, but they’re a part of life. And love is the most powerful force in existence. You may not want to hear this right now, but you need to, before that ice sets in. It’s not always easy, but love is what makes us who we are, it’s the backbone of our identity, the core of our mission on Earth. Love for one another, self-love, love for a child or a partner. Love is selfless and unconditional, it’s the light in the storm, a beacon in the darkness. And you, my child, are capable of so much love. Don’t write it out of your story.”

Love

Rediscovery

Little by little, my mother’s words of wisdom unearthed something buried deep inside. Something that existed in a place without time. All the ingredients were already there, but that’s why all souls are gifted at the beginning with free will. Discovering our inner well is a question of choice, of mindfulness, of awareness. There are endless possibilities found at the crossroads. And when we connect to that primordial source, we have the chance to live on Earth as we did back there, back then. Write our own life story.

My mother is an exceptional woman, a strong, caring, honest person who was chosen long ago to guide me on my divine path, along with my father. Her love and unwavering support have built me up even when the desire to stray was enticing. A dictionary would not be enough to cover my gratitude, but I have rediscovered other ways to manifest it, more meaningful and durable. Never again will I withhold love, but continue to resurface that authentic knowledge for as long as there is breath left in me.

Mother, I love you!

Dear reader,

Thank you for taking this journey with me. May it inspire you in writing your own story, confident in your capabilities, unwavering when faced with roadblocks, full of love and happiness.

A.M.Radulescu