A Love Letter to My Mother, in Stardust and Memory

My mother tried so hard to bring me into this world through her narrow hips—perhaps all the pieces of me that were still hers didn’t want to leave, or maybe I was such a force, so big an energy, that they had to cut open our womb and take me out. I often wondered when we became who we are, or if we had always been the tiny eggs we started from, living inside the very first mother, and if she really was once a star. If I had to name my spirit, I would have called her Stardust—though perhaps that was just another one of my metaphysical musings, another way of trying to make sense of the great, unknowable mystery of being.

Mom, what would you have called your spirit? Did you ever wonder when you became you? Were you also too big an energy to stay just an egg?

I have so many stories to share and so much to thank you for. It never mattered if our memories were true or embellished, metaphors or the tallest of tales, like the Book of Idioms project I made in elementary school. Thank you for sharing your body with me, for bringing me into this world as Kerrie.

As mothers, we make a choice to become mothers, and no pile of Hallmark cards or precious hand-drawn Mother’s Day pictures could ever express the depth of gratitude for that ultimate act of co-creation with all that is. So thank you for choosing the astronomically slim miracle—to host the perfect blend of fate, chance, and self-determination that became me.

I know it took a lot for you to arrive at the precise moment in time that led you to become my mom. Just as I had my unique take on life, I knew you had yours. Like a mirror that falls and shatters, each shard of jagged glass reflected infinite versions of reality depending on how the light hit it.

Your parents used to threaten to sell you back to the gypsies if you didn’t eat your vegetables, and I always wanted to go find my kindred gypsy souls—crystal balls, loud music, dancing, and a passionate, nomadic band of free spirits. What you perhaps feared, I longed to belong to. Or did you, too? Did you want to sing and dance with the gypsies, to whirl and watch your skirt spin in endless circles?

There was a childhood photo of you in Wickhambrook, England in that little thatched-roof house far away from home, surrounded by people who didn’t understand you. I heard stories of how they said you had a bit of the devil in you—maybe because they couldn’t explain your curiosity and hunger for life. I was so sorry they didn’t see you for who you were. I hoped you knew it was because they didn’t see themselves. You were an energy too big to contain. They hid the magic cookies up high for fear you’d grow like Alice in Wonderland, bursting through the cottage roof.

I was sorry all the “theys” in your life tried to shrink you. Maybe that was part of you I carried—why I had been too big for your tiny hips.

You taught me to reach, to never stop reaching, even when the chair beneath me broke or those meant to love me called me names. Thank you for putting a little fire in me, too—metaphors, metaphysical concepts, and all. Did you know I survived the cruelty of bullies not because you told me I wasn’t ugly, but because you showed me that no name-calling, no obstacle could stop me from reaching? No failure, no hardship defined you. It wasn’t words that taught me to be me; it was your light and determination all along.

Mom, I am sorry it took me so long to understand that it was never about blame or words. I didn’t know how to take away your pain because it was yours to carry. Your story was yours, and it made you you.

You taught me to love humanity, to feel so deeply, and to be brave enough to endure. You tried to make sense of Kahlil Gibran’s wisdom and I believe you tried to raise me through this lens:

“Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.”

I won’t lie—I didn’t always understand this. As my own children grow, I continue to struggle to make sense of the primal ferocity to love, nurture, and protect, while giving them space to follow their path.

I am sorry for any judgments I ever passed or any doubts I had about whether your best was truly your best. But I also hope you knew that 99.99% of the time, I have lived in grace and gratitude. My heart has always ached for you. I am an empath—I felt your pain, just as I had felt your love. It had always been an unspoken connection, a pure energetic WiFi. It wasn’t until I carried my own jar of injustices and heartbreaks that I could separate my pain from yours.

I was sorry I couldn’t take it away- your endless heartache. I was sorry if my innocent persuasive leadership as a child ever pulled you off your own path or guided you somewhere you didn’t want to be.

I understand heartbreak now, all the way back to the beginning, back to the specks of dust we came from.

I keep a jar of rocks and shells on my nightstand. I remembered collecting shells on the shore, holding them to my ear to listen to the ocean’s song. That was why I saved them. They reminded me we could collect kindness and beauty in this world, just as we collect heartbreaks.

Mom, I hoped you knew how much my tiny being loved you. How beautiful I saw you. How I loved to sing and dance because you filled our lives with music, art, and creativity. I loved lying upside down on the bed, combing our hair. I loved going places with you. I loved your big love for the world and your desire to help others. I loved your laugh. I loved how you spoke to me about things beyond my understanding and gave me space to think for myself. You were the greatest teacher a child could ask for.

As I replay the stories in my “lessons learned” jar, I realized how well you had taught me- sometimes by bearing witness to your choices and suffering I learned: Not to be selfish. Not to lie or steal. To be brave, to know I could do hard things. To understand that life could be scary, and that it was okay to feel. To know it was okay to be alone, and that friends were family.  And kindness matters.

You taught me to stand up, to use my voice, and to keep asking questions.

You taught me that beauty wasn’t something you could see—it was something you felt. And that no amount of makeup could hide a broken heart, just as no amount of purging could erase self-loathing.

You taught me to heal or be consumed by pain.

You taught me that love—pure love—was always unconditional.

I loved you, Mom. You always signed my birthday cards with a sweet sentiment that the year that had just passed was your favorite year yet. I hoped you knew how much that shaped my belief in the possibility that life truly does keep expanding. That no matter what, each day is the best day yet.

In the end, you spoke of coming back—of finishing the lessons you didn’t quite complete in this lifetime. You held onto that belief, and I hope that wherever your spirit lands, you find peace in the knowing that all of it—the heartbreak, the joy, the wonder—was not in vain. And when you accepted that you were ready to cross that rainbow bridge, I hope you felt the love surrounding you, filling every speck of your being.

I knew you had some regrets. I knew you carried a jar of injustices and heartbreaks you might not have had time to make sense of in this lifetime. But I also knew you had spent your life pouring hope into others. I hope, in those final breaths, you could pour some into yourself.

I hope you knew how much you were loved.

And I hope you have given yourself permission to love yourself just as fiercely.✨