Things We Learn from Our Mothers

Today marks the death anniversary of my mother. Missing her never stopped — it only deepened with time.

Grief, I have learned, has its own mysterious journey. It does not follow a straight line, nor does it fade with the passing years.

I have moved between countries, homes, and within the landscape of my own motherhood, my grief for her has grown more tender, more alive. It has changed shape, from the sharp pain of early loss into something quieter, more intricate, yet ever-present.

This letter is for her — my mother — and for everything she taught me.

Lessons in Courage

My mother taught me to see beauty when it feels impossible to see it. She taught me to believe in the goodness of people, even when anger or fear sit close to the surface.
She showed me the profound art of understanding others, to keep my heart open, and to care for people for who they are, not who the world expects them to be.

From her, I learned to be inclusive, to never separate one human being from another, and to live with a deep sense of love and empathy. My mother believed in the power of good...even in the middle of chaos.

During the war, when grenades and snipers filled the air, she still managed to feed us, protect us, and go to work. She demonstrated enormous courage and quiet faith.

She believed enough to let me and my sister go, to cross borders, to follow our dreams. She believed in freedom, in art, in our right to live our own truth. She never judged our choices. Instead, she supported them with an open heart, even when others did not understand.

She stood against injustice, protected her family, and carried deep emotional intelligence — long before we had fancy words to describe it.

The Grief of What Was Missed

I grieve that she never met my son. Yet I feel her presence in our lives every day — in the way I mother, in the way I love. I grieve that I never thanked her for everything she carried. That I did not recognize, while she was alive, the weight of her responsibilities or the bravery it took to raise two teenage girls in the midst of war.

She was, and always will be, one of my greatest heroines: a woman of tender soul and enormous courage.

I learned from my mother that strength can be soft. That it is okay to make different choices when situations no longer serves us. That self-sacrifice is not always love, and that endless giving often carries the shadow of patriarchy.

From her, I learned the importance of breaking silence, of speaking truths both inside and outside the family. I learned that we can build alternative families, and circles of belonging where we are seen and accepted for who we truly are.

She taught me to say no, to stand against abuse, and to choose myself — again and again.

The Lessons That Remain

My mother continues to teach me how to live with love, integrity, and courage. Every act of kindness, every story I tell, every space I hold for others, they all carry her spirit, quietly guiding me. Her voice still lives in the rhythm of my days.

Her lessons are stitched into my being — not through grand declarations, but through the quiet repetitions of care. When I offer comfort to someone who feels unseen, I feel her presence. When I stand for what is right, even when it is uncomfortable, I am continuing her legacy.

Through her, I learned that grief is not the absence of love, but its echo — the sound love makes when it has nowhere to go. It is the way love continues to move through us. Grief, in its strange and sacred way, keeps love alive. It reminds us that we were blessed to love deeply enough to mourn so fully.

My grief for my mother is no longer just sorrow, it is also gratitude. Gratitude for having been loved so completely that her presence still lingers in every good thing I try to do. She lives on in my words, in my work, and in every story that seeks to heal or connect.