The Women Who Helped Raise Me

I think of her driving through mountains after we got hopelessly lost…

Me in the passenger seat, trying to read a paper map and somehow pretending I knew what I was doing. I remember how proud she was when we finally found our way.

And looking back now…

I think maybe that was always who she was.

A woman who kept driving…

Even when she had no idea where the road was leading.

I remember being sick a lot as a child. And I remember my mother caring for me. Checking fevers. Bringing medicine. Sitting beside me. Making sure I knew I was not alone.

Even when life was heavy…

She showed up.

And life was heavy. Heavier than I understood at the time.

After my father, she entered a relationship that was not always kind to her. And then another relationship that confused me. A relationship that angered me at times. A relationship I sometimes begged her to leave. I remember pleading with her. Crying. Not understanding why she stayed. Why she kept going back. Why someone so loving would choose a life that made her so unhappy at times. And if I am being honest…

For a long time, I resented her for that.

There were also times when I blamed her for not protecting me. For not understanding the pain I carried after what happened with my father. For not knowing what to say. For not knowing how to fix what could never be undone.

I think, for many years…

I wanted my mother to be stronger than human. I wanted her to know exactly what to do. Exactly what to say. Exactly how to save all of us. But somewhere along the way…

I stopped seeing her only as my mother.

And I started seeing her as a woman. A young woman. Eighteen years old. Already raising babies. Already trying to survive. Already making impossible choices with no roadmap, no healing, no guidebook. And suddenly…

So much of what once felt like anger…

Became understanding.

How could she have known what to do…

When she was still trying to figure out life herself?

The older I get, the more I realize something I never understood as a child:

While she was raising us…

She was growing up too.

When you are young, your parents seem fully formed. As though they arrived in the world already knowing how to be adults. Already knowing how to navigate heartbreak, disappointment, fear, and responsibility.

M mother was learning as she went. She was becoming a woman at the same time she was teaching me how to become one. And somehow, despite all the things life asked of her, she never let her heart harden. That may be the thing I admire most.

My mother has always had a gift for seeing people. Not the polished version they present to the world. The real person underneath. Even now, working as a greeter at Walmart, she spends her own money buying stickers for children. The local kids know her as "the sticker lady." And if you ask her about it, she lights up. Not because she wants recognition. But because bringing joy to someone else genuinely makes her happy.

She talks to strangers like they are old friends. She remembers names. She listens to stories. She notices when someone seems lonely. She has never met a person she thought was beneath her time or kindness.

I have watched her sacrifice her own comfort more times than I can count. Giving when she had little to spare. Showing up when she was exhausted. Helping when no one asked her to. Loving people simply because they needed to be loved.

For so much of my life, I measured my mother by the ways she fell short of impossible expectations.

Now I measure her by the kindness she carried through impossible circumstances. And when I do that…

I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude.

Because the truth is, many of the things I like most about myself came from her.

My compassion. My desire to help. My inability to walk past someone who is hurting. My belief that small acts of kindness matter. Those things did not appear out of nowhere. I learned them by watching a woman who quietly practiced them every day of her life.

What amazes me most about my mother is not that she got everything right.

It is that she never stopped trying.

She taught us to be independent. To work. To provide for ourselves. To never depend on someone else to build the life we wanted. She gave and gave and gave. She was always the last one to sit down with her meal. Always helping someone else first. Always carrying more than anyone probably realized. And the older I get…

The more I catch myself doing the same.

Helping. Serving. Putting others before myself. Trying to be the good one. The dependable one. The one who carries what needs to be carried. We are both middle children. And maybe that explains some of it. Or maybe…

Some things are simply passed from one heart to another.

These days, one of the things that makes me most proud is watching her work beside me in BFF Youth Network. At first, she doubted herself. She worried she was not smart enough. That maybe she did not belong in something this big. And now?

Now she talks about our mission with pride. With conviction. With fire. And when I watch her speak about the work we are doing…

I do not just see my mother.

I see the young woman who was handed more than anyone should have to carry. I see the woman who kept getting back up. The woman who kept loving. The woman who kept giving pieces of herself away so her children would have what they needed. I see a woman who never stopped becoming.

And I realize that so much of who I am…

Began with her.

And if I could speak to the young woman who became my mother…

I would tell her this:

You are stronger than you know.

You are capable of more than you believe.

Keep your heart.

Forgive yourself.

Love as fiercely as you always have.

The world needs more women like you.

And one day…

Your daughter is going to look at you with tears in her eyes…

And be so incredibly proud of the woman you became.

And so incredibly grateful that she got to call you Mom.

— Jennifer Rene Wallace