My Mothers Daughter.

My mother taught me many things.

She taught me to cook a warm meal.

She taught me to sew and mend.

She taught me that knowledge is the most important gift.

But the one thing that always sat with me

the thing that always made me strong

Never hide who I am.

I see people feel pressured into a life they don't want

into being people they don't like

made to put up an act for strangers.

They're exhausted.

They hate their life. They hate who they are.

My mother taught me that being unique, not caring about how others see me is the greatest weapon I could ever possess.

She taught me that in a society that values and imposes conformity, being singular was an act of rebellion.

I almost lost that lesson.

In high school, I wanted nothing more than to blend in and disappear.

but that wasn't possible for me.

I began to lose my hair when I was 11.

Great big chunks of my waist-length hair would greet me as I woke up, draped across my pillow like broken birds.

We tried to style my hair to cover the bald spots.

when that didn't work I began to wear hats and bandannas.

I was terrified that people would see. That they might laugh at and mock me.

Or even worse ignore me completely. act as if I weren't even there.

One day, a few months after my 12th birthday, I looked in our bathroom mirror.

I stared at my limp, tangled hair. I grew disgusted.

I didn't know who that person was.

They were afraid of the world. Scared of what strangers might think.

I hated that person.

The shears glided so smoothly against my skin.

I watched my locks of hair fall to the ground.

My mother's tears joined them.

I stared in the mirror once it was done. My shaved head looking like a dalmatian with all the little bald spots.

This person wasn't afraid. This person knew who they were. They knew That no one could touch them. That the world didn't deserve a say.

I liked this person. They made me smile.

Throughout high school, some of my fears came true.

People did mock me. They laughed and belittled me.

But they didn't just make fun of my hair.

They didn't like my clothes either.

They made fun of my interests.

My hobbies.

They laughed at my love of Greek myth

my fondness for crime and mysteries.

They laughed at my obsession with anatomy and called me a freak for my interest in witchcraft.

They made me the butt of their jokes. I was their punching bag.

But none of their blows ever landed.

They didn't matter anymore.

I wore my leather jackets proudly.

I adorned myself with spikes so that no one could touch me.

I bore the symbol of my magic around my neck.

I studied crime and myth.

I researched poisons and witchcraft.

I dove deep into the curiosities of the world.

The things people said were unseemly.

My mother gave me those spikes.

She bought me those leather jackets.

She bought me my first cauldron and helped me research the medicinal properties of different herbs and spices.

She encouraged me to explore the wilds of the world

To become a curiosity myself.

She helped me study for my criminology exams, reading through pages of gruesome details of murders and other violent crimes.

She patiently listened when I rambled on about greek myth for an hour, quietly sipping on her tea all the while.

I never knew just how important individuality was to her

Until we saw a mother scolding her child for wanting a dress that the mother thought was 'too dark and grungy for an 8-year-old'.

My mother gave the lady a disapproving look and complimented the little girl.

Saying that she looked very tough in her little black and red dress.

When we got back to the car, my mother screamed into her hands.

She told me that one of the biggest mistakes a parent can make is stifling a child's right to choose

to kill their creativity and individuality.

I have never seen her so furious at another person in my life.

I saw then, just how much she had done for me.

I remembered how many times she had encouraged me to choose what I wanted when shopping.

How many times she listened to me ramble.

How often she helped me carry skulls and strange stones home to put in my room.

How she always fought for my right to choose, no matter how strange the choice.

My mother has always made sure I could be an individual.

She has always supported my strangeness.

My curiosities.

My strange, beautiful, wonderful and unique mother.

Now here i stand.

Bald, clad in tulle, leather and lace

with platforms on my feet

spikes on my shoulder

skulls by my side

the knowledge of poisons and remedies in my mind

myths and legends in my soul

and curiosity in my heart.

Born to bring fire and gold into the world.

I am relentless.

I am bold.

I am unique.

I am my mother's daughter.