From Her

for my mother, on a day of remembering and becoming

Today, I celebrated the woman

who raised me with hands that once trembled from survival

but learned to steady themselves

so mine could hold others.

I listened—

not just with my ears,

but with the heart of a daughter

and the soul of a healer.

Her stories were not new,

but the courage in her voice was.

I heard the girl she used to be—

frightened, silenced, underestimated—

and the woman she decided to become:

soft, strong, whole on her own terms.

And I realized—

so much of who I am

is borrowed from her resilience,

stitched into my work,

my instincts,

my way of loving people through their pain.

I carry her in my tone,

in my tenacity,

in the questions I ask and the way I wait for answers.

I carry her in how I nurture,

how I hold space,

how I create safety without needing permission.

And today, I was proud—

not in a loud or showy way,

but in the quiet knowing

that healing runs in our bloodline now.

We are the proof

that pain does not get the final word.