Dear Mama, I Get It Now.

It didn’t always sound like love. But it was love.

When I was younger, my mother and I were almost always at war. Not with fist, but loud words and long silences that felt like battlefields. We disagreed about everything like what I wore, where I went, the way I styled my hair, how long I stayed out, even the tone of my responses (which to be fair, was often laced with sarcasm). Her tone, sharp and always urgent, felt like constant criticism and it got under my skin. I always felt judged, like nothing I did was ever quite right. I don’t think a day went by without me whispering under my breath, I can’t wait to leave this house.

And when the time came, I did.

I got what I wanted. My own room, my own rules. I could eat cereal at midnight, leave dishes in the sink, blast music while doing my makeup. No one questioned my every move. I could sleep in, skip chores, wear whatever I liked. And for a while, it felt like peace. Like freedom.

But something unexpected happened over the years. As I started building my own life, I began to notice traces of her in me. And when I became a mother, those faint traces became clear reflections like looking into a mirror I didn’t know I was holding.

It started with little things like worrying about the weather when my daughter played outside, snapping when she didn't listen, hovering nervously over every sniffle and cough.

Then one day, mid-rant, I heard it.

My mother’s voice, coming out of my own mouth.

I froze.

And just like that, something clicked. I finally understood.

I understood the look on my mother’s face when I came home late. The way her voice would shake not just from anger, but something deeper. Maybe fear. I remembered how she used to sit by the window, waiting. How she’d always make sure there was food on the stove even when we hadn’t spoken all day. How her “Where are you going dressed like that?” wasn’t always an attack. It was worry, clumsily expressed.

It wasn’t that my mother didn’t' love me. It wasn’t that she was wrong all these year. It was just that I didn’t like her tone. Her delivery. She came from a world where softness was often swallowed by survival. Where discipline was love in disguise. Where parenting was more about protection than emotional finesse.

In retrospect, I should have given her more grace.

She may not have had the gentlest approach, but she meant well. She protected me the only way she knew how. She wasn’t trying to control me but was trying to keep me safe. She didn’t always get it right. Her words could wound, her reactions felt harsh, but behind the bark was a woman trying her best with the tools she was given.

This was her first life, too.

She had no blueprint. No self-help podcasts. No Instagram therapists. Just instinct, fear, love and a whole lot of responsibility. She was figuring it out in real time just like I am now. I wish I had given her more grace. I wish I had looked past the sharp edges to see the trembling hands beneath. She meant well. She always did. I was just too young, too angry, too eager for distance to notice.

Now, when my daughter challenges me, I try to pause. I try to speak softly. I try to listen more than I correct. But on the days I fail, I remind myself that I am not perfect either. I am navigating this motherhood journey for the first time. One messy, beautiful step at a time.

And maybe that’s the biggest lesson my mother ever gave me:
You don’t have to get it all right. You just have to mean well and keep trying.