Summary

The author reflects on their journey from desiring to be distinct from their mother to embracing their family resemblance and the impact of their mother's quiet support on their self-discovery and success.

Abstract

The author begins by expressing a desire for vibrancy and individuality, often defying family expectations by choosing bold colors over pastels, both literally and metaphorically. Despite a strong physical and temperamental resemblance to their mother, the author initially sought to distance themselves from the family identity, craving recognition for their unique attributes and skills. The mother, a creative yet self-doubting woman, shunned the spotlight but was instrumental in nurturing the author's creativity and confidence, eventually becoming their greatest advocate. The author's resistance to family identity led to a pursuit of personal goals and the development of self-confidence. Over time, the author has come to accept and celebrate the family likeness, especially after the mother's passing, realizing the profound influence she had on their life.

Opinions

The author initially resented the strong family resemblance and sought to establish a unique identity.
The mother's unassuming nature and creative talent were both a source of inspiration and a contrast to the author's desire for recognition.
The author valued the freedom to pursue their own goals and credited their mother for fostering their curiosity and individuality.
The author's perspective shifted from wanting to diminish the family likeness to celebrating it, recognizing their mother's role in shaping their character and achievements.
The act of writing to their deceased mother serves as a cathartic acknowledgment of the enduring bond and the author's gratitude for her unwavering belief and support.

Now I Understand the Struggles of Family Inevitability

All I wanted was to be different.

Your life is color. You surround yourself with color.

So much vivid color. It’s who you are.

When I look in my mirror, I mean properly look at my image, not just to attend the hair or makeup, I see you. And I think there should be more color when I see you.

I toss aside the lackluster pastels and reach for the red shirt. Other times I disregard the navy and opt for the shimmering aquamarine of the sea.

I see you, Mum.

From the time I was a small girl, everyone would tell you how much this daughter looked like you.

All my life, I wanted the differences valued, the attributes acknowledged, the skillful qualities recognized, character traits noticed, and the likeness to diminish.

You didn’t seek any form of illumination. No, you shied away from it, kept to the shadow’s edge, and pushed others into the heat of the spotlight’s center.

You wore the worry of achievement like a cloak you couldn’t shrug off. The anxiety would cause you uncertainty, and you would question your ability to succeed. A creative core meant you had the expertise to take on any creative challenge, but your fear of harsh judgment reined in any arrogance.

I admired your creativity enormously but resisted my own because I believed in my differences. When anyone complimented my efforts as I grew older, I basked in the praise, shying away from the humility you taught each of us to present to the world.

I wanted to be distinctive, famous even. At various times I wanted to belong to a different family, as I felt unappreciated, misunderstood. I repeatedly did the unexpected, the opposite.

Repeatedly rejected what you planned for me until I was given the freedom to finally pursue my goals. I didn’t understand the acquiescing from you at the time, only the notion of confirming how much I resisted a family identity. I realized much later how skilled you were in letting me explore my differences. You gave me the drive to push against the boundaries, to cultivate the curiosity I had. Curiosity to develop my self-confidence, and especially to unleash my creativity and individuality.

You became my greatest defender for recognition. Your belief in what I could do was inspirational. Your bragging rights were monumental, while never granting the gift was genetic.

You addressed your pride to others, but in turn, I heard the approbation, albeit second and third hand.

I disliked the hereditary, steely-grey hair as I matured, so I continued to color it until recently to look less like my heritage.

My mirror confirms my family heritage now by the grey hair. There’s no mistaking who I’m related to. It’s not about the family name I use; it’s an even older name than the legacy the family left behind.

Our relationship has endured, but I know there were times when I wasn’t present. You didn’t complain.

Then our roles evolved, reversed.

Do you remember the last time you gave us an excuse to gather family and friends, old school friends, too, as I recall? I remember so many people present who mentioned I was your image. I felt so proud.

I know how much you enjoy writing and receiving letters, and I apologize for taking so long to write to you. I think the last letter I wrote to you, was the one I dropped along with the vivid flowers you loved, onto your coffin over twelve years ago. So much has happened since then.

I love you, and I miss you.

All my life, I wanted the differences to be valued, the attributes acknowledged, the skillful qualities recognized, character traits to be noticed, and the likeness to diminish.

Today I look in my mirror, and there you are.

No differences. I simply celebrate the likeness and smile.