for my mom.

every time i write anything, my mom always tells me (not ask me), “write about me, juju.” so, here goes:

my mom has always been different.

she wore skirts to my brother’s football games when other moms wore jeans and rocked her big, oversized pradas in the bleachers of my soccer matches. until third grade, she dressed me up like a little doll in skirts and blouses and mary-jane shoes; never forgetting to tie a bow (or fasten a headband) to my notoriously unpredictable hair.

it wasn’t just the way my mom dressed that made her (in my eyes) different. walking into any room, my mom’s mere presence demanded attention — without her even realizing it. she walked with her head higher, her back straighter, and with more confidence than anyone else in the room. she was unapologetically, and unabashedly, herself — no matter what anyone else thought.

despite this, i oftentimes felt insecure about my mom, especially when i got into my teenage years. my mom was well-liked, but more so, well-respected: and while this would be a pride-point for anyone, i was embarrassed. i didn’t want my mom to be known, i didn’t want her to be different: i wanted her to be “normal.”

i couldn’t understand why my mom couldn’t “just blend in”: why she couldn’t “just not get involved” when girls would bully me at school. why she couldn’t “just deal with it” when a restaurant tried to seat us at a table that was too small to fit us. why she couldn’t “just not interact” if a salesperson was rude to us. why she couldn’t “just stop being so strict” when the other moms weren’t. why she couldn’t “just be normal” so i could be just be normal.

whenever someone would tell me that i sounded like my mom, acted like my mom, or was growing to become more and more like my mom, i cringed. i wanted to be normal and, to me, my mom was not normal.

i stopped letting my mom dress me, and started (to horrendously attempt) dressing myself. i would look at rude people with apologetic eyes because i was embarrassed when my mom asked for the bare minimum. my mom being who she was made me want to be small, and i wanted her to be small, too. it’s why crying in h-mart will always be hard to read.

my mom started running marathons (yes, marathons: half and full) when i was in high school. i grew up seeing my mom go to the gym in the mornings, go on walks at night, and cook dinner for us in the evening — never discouraging seconds, and always encouraging dessert. if there was one thing i was proud of, it was having a mom who not only prioritized her health, but her family’s as well.

i remember watching her cross the finish line at her first half-marathon. after raising three kids (including the moody mess i am), my mom did something for her — she did something in her 49-year-old body that my 14-year-old body could never dream of doing. despite my cloud of teenage, hormonal angst, a thought cut through it all like a steel blade: my mom is a fucking superhero.

(note: my mom will probably be mad i used that word, but whatever. she’s from jersey. get used to it, mom.)

she continued on to run more halfs, two fulls, and two triathlons. and while my mom evolved, so did i. going to college across the country, my mom was there for me from my dismissive, rushed calls, to tearful sobs after the reality of adulthood started to hit me. for most of my life, i wanted to be small because i wanted my mom to be small. i wanted us to be small, passive, and normal. and i didn’t want to be that anymore.

as i got older, grew out of my angst (mostly), and matured through some of the worst times in my life, i realized that my mom’s differences — the things i shied away from — were her superpowers. her confidence and constant pride in herself inspired me to put myself first: to not “just deal with it” when i found myself in toxic relationships, to not “just brush it off” when words hurt, and to not “just roll over and die” when things got tough. my mom’s superpower made me want better for myself.

she made me not want to be small anymore, because she, herself, was never small to begin with. (unless, we’re talking about sizing. have you seen the woman? she looks flippin’ fantastic.)

in terms of my mother, the only thing i’m embarrassed about is being embarrassed in the first place. my mom wearing skirts and pradas in the bleachers of my rural high school wasn’t embarrassing: it was a power move. my mom standing up for my family, and her friends, to disrespectful people wasn’t embarrassing: it was rightfully protective. my mom’s ability to stand tall despite the constant noise was never embarrassing: it would be the thing that saved me. because of her, i cherish every time someone tells me “you’re becoming more and more like your mom” no matter if it’s served with ill or benevolent intent.

i grapple with my ability to forgive myself for the way i treated my mom every single day. every time i was disrespectful, or was a bad daughter, or embarrassed about the way my mom was shamelessly and gracefully her. all i can do now is make her proud — and i hope i’m doing that by wanting to be all the best parts of her, while embracing the worst of me.

last weekend, i ran the half marathon with my mom. i watched her pass me right around the four-mile marker — she crossed the finish line at 57-years-old, 20 minutes before her 23-year-old kid. and as i watched her pass me, i was hit with an overwhelming feeling of pride: that’s my mom. and i’m so proud that she is.