Very interesting. I don't identify at all. Like you, I had a very strong mother, but unlike yours, mine was utterly involved in her career (yes, it wasn't the done thing, but she was determined to show that she could do it, even with three children) and she was very successful but only tangentially interested in her children. She handed out discipline and asked the right questions but had only a lukewarm interest in the answers. In many ways, she was the traditional pater familias and my father was much more involved in raising us, teaching us, showing us the world as well as love etc etc. Of course, I thought it was the normal way of things, even against all the obvious evidence.
From all the little comments I heard, I think she looked down on me and would occasionally make barbed comments. Certainly never gave me that ferocious maternal love other women seem to get. I have never been in therapy (never felt I needed it, rightly or wrongly), but over the years I think I just disconnected myself. And I moved to England in my late 20s, so she was never much part of my life after that and our relations were perfunctory and performative. When she got dementia in her mid-80s, my reaction was that she was 'de-clawed' – and that was very relaxing. She died 20 years ago and I think about her hardly ever.
Somehow, reading this over, it makes me sound like a terrible daughter but I don't feel guilty at all. I think I instinctively did what I needed to do to be me. Interestingly, almost everyone at her funeral were work colleagues who extolled her brilliance and insight.
I didn't expect to write so much, but it all flooded out so perhaps it was therapeutic.
Terrible daughter? Not at all. You had no basis for a relationship and were spared, by geography, the ongoing battles that exhaust many daughters in adult life.
Rona, this beautifully captures what can be complicated for many of us- feeling small, the voice in our head (and now on top of yours!), the loss when we lose them and some of the bloom that follows for many. Thanks for writing and sharing.
As I read this and came to the sentence - "Her death forced me.." somehow in my head substituted "allowed" for forced. While my parents, and even my older sister, were alive, I would likely muddle through scenarios in my head as to "how will I ever explain _____ fill in the blank choice" to them. I felt stifled that as an adult with my own family, I still needed and wanted their approval. Perhaps you were the same, and went for the opportunity of a stellar job because she was not there to tell you were not fit for it or intercede on your behalf. The victory or the loss was yours alone. On the other hand, reviewing our choices within the structure of a healthy family of origin, is measurement against the moral compass we were given.
A nuanced and quietly powerful piece, Rona. Will be saving it to read and think about again. The mother-daughter relationship is sometimes so complicated, tied up with so many things in the past that they never addressed themselves, including giving up ambitions and independence for the sake of the family. I enjoyed Elena Ferrante's (mercifully short!) The Lost Daughter on this.
I’m late to the Mother’s Day party, as it’s a day I despise. For reasons such as, I wish my mother had looked at me the way Fredelle is looking at you in the photo above.
So let’s talk hats. My mother looked fetching in them in her youth, but was claustrophobic and couldn’t stand them. She’d wear those minimal 1950s headpieces at funerals and to rare appearances at synagogue. Only when it was very cold out would she cover her head. I on the other hand would have a collection of wide-brimmed architectural wonders like Mae West’s, but for the resulting hat-hair.
We were never much alike, other than political leanings. And while I was the one with advanced degrees, she corrected my grammar all the time. It’s taken decades, but finally I can say I’m grateful she did that for me.
I remember thise little 50s hats. Some had net veils. I’m sorry that your mother is such a discomfiting memory. For one reason or another. Lots of us are not wild about Mother’s Day.
My mother is on her way out of this life; she corrected me horribly recently (I decided it's my last visit to see her). I'm playing with new ways to feel about it - as you so beautifully said, Carol. I just posted about this last week. Thank you for your perspective! 🙏🏼
Rona, I appreciate learning how you came to terms with the similarities and differences between you and your mother, and how to were able to step into your own power after she left what must have been a big vacancy behind. I have felt some of the same, though my mother has been gone just three years now.
Years ago, my then-friend, now sister-in-law purchased a head-turner of a hat. When I asked if she planned to wear it out that night she said, "Oh, no! I have to practice. I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror and say, 'I'm wearing my hat, and I KNOW IT!'" I've always appreciated that attitude.
I have a few of my own favorites, the newest an Australian Akubra purchased when we went to visit the daughter who moved there (temporarily) 2.5 years ago. It's quite the hat. :)
You got me thinking about my mother tonight for the first time in years. It sounds unbelievable but when I told her, age 26, that I was pregnant for the first time, she said "Well, there's many a slip between cup and lip." I was genuinely confused and asked what she meant – and she meant that I shouldn't get too excited as I could have a miscarriage! In fact, I went on to have my daughter, now age 55. You couldn't make it up.
Jill, you zeroed in my favorite line in the piece. I've written about my mother's death before, but this is a new insight. Some narrative wells don't ever run dry.
"My mother was 20 years gone when it struck me that I no longer heard her voice inside my head."
My first novel begins with the cruel inner voice of a dead mother, speaking in my main character's mind. By the end, Yolanda is free from her mother's cruelty: the voice is transformed. Several early readers didn't like that voice. I thought: doesn't everyone have a mean self-talker in their brain?
My mother with dementia is likely nearing her end; last week she was cruel to me, again. I freed myself from the painful self-talk, gift of our female lineage, long ago (or it's gone deeper underground?) Your letter is so touching. I hope to return to that deeper love of a mother for her daughter. I do wear her hats 🥰 but they don't quite 'fit.'
PS: I'm a former magazine lady, too -- just beginning to read "My Mother's Daughter." Grateful
What a hard passage, Christine. In my experience, perspective arrives eventually but “closure” is a myth. My wish for you is the clear, steady voice of your own self in your head.
Grateful, thank you Rona. 🙏🏼 I like the image of a spiral: we go around and around a theme/issue in our lives, and yet our perspective changes (sometimes it feels like Holy Shit 💩 spinning around in a toilet). I work daily and devotedly with my own thoughts; it's a magical power to shift perspective consciously, do you agree?
If these comments sections would allow for photos, I’d include a photo of me in my favorite hat. I wore it till it no longer held itself up. I think both you and your mom would like it.
I really love your writing about your mom. You capture the complexity that is … well, life really, how many things can be true at once when you raise her in your writing. 👒
I so wish Substack would allow photos in comments, as Facebook does. But you know where to find me, Holly. My mother was a conundrum. I'll be writing about her forever.
Thank you for this. I lost my mom just five months ago, and find your thoughts about blooming after your mom's death to be especially helpful and hopeful. I like to think that after the raw grief gives way to something more synthesized, that I will be able to find joy in bright, wild blooming (I think of dahlias here) as I walk, at 61, into this motherless place.
A marvellous tribute to your mother! I really wish I had met her at least once. Had a drink with Doug Gibson (once a publishing competitor, now just a friend) last week and he said he had met her. I was terribly envious.
Very interesting. I don't identify at all. Like you, I had a very strong mother, but unlike yours, mine was utterly involved in her career (yes, it wasn't the done thing, but she was determined to show that she could do it, even with three children) and she was very successful but only tangentially interested in her children. She handed out discipline and asked the right questions but had only a lukewarm interest in the answers. In many ways, she was the traditional pater familias and my father was much more involved in raising us, teaching us, showing us the world as well as love etc etc. Of course, I thought it was the normal way of things, even against all the obvious evidence.
From all the little comments I heard, I think she looked down on me and would occasionally make barbed comments. Certainly never gave me that ferocious maternal love other women seem to get. I have never been in therapy (never felt I needed it, rightly or wrongly), but over the years I think I just disconnected myself. And I moved to England in my late 20s, so she was never much part of my life after that and our relations were perfunctory and performative. When she got dementia in her mid-80s, my reaction was that she was 'de-clawed' – and that was very relaxing. She died 20 years ago and I think about her hardly ever.
Somehow, reading this over, it makes me sound like a terrible daughter but I don't feel guilty at all. I think I instinctively did what I needed to do to be me. Interestingly, almost everyone at her funeral were work colleagues who extolled her brilliance and insight.
I didn't expect to write so much, but it all flooded out so perhaps it was therapeutic.
Thanks.
Terrible daughter? Not at all. You had no basis for a relationship and were spared, by geography, the ongoing battles that exhaust many daughters in adult life.
Rona, this beautifully captures what can be complicated for many of us- feeling small, the voice in our head (and now on top of yours!), the loss when we lose them and some of the bloom that follows for many. Thanks for writing and sharing.
Thank you, Mimi. The grief for a mother you adored can be so profound that it’s hard to recognize the ways in which your life expands without her.
As I read this and came to the sentence - "Her death forced me.." somehow in my head substituted "allowed" for forced. While my parents, and even my older sister, were alive, I would likely muddle through scenarios in my head as to "how will I ever explain _____ fill in the blank choice" to them. I felt stifled that as an adult with my own family, I still needed and wanted their approval. Perhaps you were the same, and went for the opportunity of a stellar job because she was not there to tell you were not fit for it or intercede on your behalf. The victory or the loss was yours alone. On the other hand, reviewing our choices within the structure of a healthy family of origin, is measurement against the moral compass we were given.
I did and didn’t want to cut myself loose, hence “forced.” You are right about my mother and the job
A nuanced and quietly powerful piece, Rona. Will be saving it to read and think about again. The mother-daughter relationship is sometimes so complicated, tied up with so many things in the past that they never addressed themselves, including giving up ambitions and independence for the sake of the family. I enjoyed Elena Ferrante's (mercifully short!) The Lost Daughter on this.
Thank you, Ann. This is one of those relationships that take a lifetime to untangle. No, that's not quite right. Who ever really untangles it?
I’m late to the Mother’s Day party, as it’s a day I despise. For reasons such as, I wish my mother had looked at me the way Fredelle is looking at you in the photo above.
So let’s talk hats. My mother looked fetching in them in her youth, but was claustrophobic and couldn’t stand them. She’d wear those minimal 1950s headpieces at funerals and to rare appearances at synagogue. Only when it was very cold out would she cover her head. I on the other hand would have a collection of wide-brimmed architectural wonders like Mae West’s, but for the resulting hat-hair.
We were never much alike, other than political leanings. And while I was the one with advanced degrees, she corrected my grammar all the time. It’s taken decades, but finally I can say I’m grateful she did that for me.
I remember thise little 50s hats. Some had net veils. I’m sorry that your mother is such a discomfiting memory. For one reason or another. Lots of us are not wild about Mother’s Day.
My mother is on her way out of this life; she corrected me horribly recently (I decided it's my last visit to see her). I'm playing with new ways to feel about it - as you so beautifully said, Carol. I just posted about this last week. Thank you for your perspective! 🙏🏼
Love this piece... one of the best I've read on Substack this year...
Now, that’s what I call a compliment. Thank you so much, Ethan.
Rona, I appreciate learning how you came to terms with the similarities and differences between you and your mother, and how to were able to step into your own power after she left what must have been a big vacancy behind. I have felt some of the same, though my mother has been gone just three years now.
Years ago, my then-friend, now sister-in-law purchased a head-turner of a hat. When I asked if she planned to wear it out that night she said, "Oh, no! I have to practice. I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror and say, 'I'm wearing my hat, and I KNOW IT!'" I've always appreciated that attitude.
Oh, I completely understand. You have to psych yourself up for a statement-making hat. My mother was the exception.
I have a few of my own favorites, the newest an Australian Akubra purchased when we went to visit the daughter who moved there (temporarily) 2.5 years ago. It's quite the hat. :)
I wish Substack, like Facebook, let us post photos in comments.
You got me thinking about my mother tonight for the first time in years. It sounds unbelievable but when I told her, age 26, that I was pregnant for the first time, she said "Well, there's many a slip between cup and lip." I was genuinely confused and asked what she meant – and she meant that I shouldn't get too excited as I could have a miscarriage! In fact, I went on to have my daughter, now age 55. You couldn't make it up.
Yikes. How callous.
Loved the line about when you needed to feel small and no one else would do besides your mum. Gutted me. Love the hats!
Jill, you zeroed in my favorite line in the piece. I've written about my mother's death before, but this is a new insight. Some narrative wells don't ever run dry.
To become a motherless child in my 50s marked the onset of my coming-into-age, the real work of growing up began
You've just reminded me that all through adult life I have asked myself, "How old is grown up?"
OUR MOTHER'S VOICE IN OUR HEADS
"My mother was 20 years gone when it struck me that I no longer heard her voice inside my head."
My first novel begins with the cruel inner voice of a dead mother, speaking in my main character's mind. By the end, Yolanda is free from her mother's cruelty: the voice is transformed. Several early readers didn't like that voice. I thought: doesn't everyone have a mean self-talker in their brain?
My mother with dementia is likely nearing her end; last week she was cruel to me, again. I freed myself from the painful self-talk, gift of our female lineage, long ago (or it's gone deeper underground?) Your letter is so touching. I hope to return to that deeper love of a mother for her daughter. I do wear her hats 🥰 but they don't quite 'fit.'
PS: I'm a former magazine lady, too -- just beginning to read "My Mother's Daughter." Grateful
What a hard passage, Christine. In my experience, perspective arrives eventually but “closure” is a myth. My wish for you is the clear, steady voice of your own self in your head.
Grateful, thank you Rona. 🙏🏼 I like the image of a spiral: we go around and around a theme/issue in our lives, and yet our perspective changes (sometimes it feels like Holy Shit 💩 spinning around in a toilet). I work daily and devotedly with my own thoughts; it's a magical power to shift perspective consciously, do you agree?
If these comments sections would allow for photos, I’d include a photo of me in my favorite hat. I wore it till it no longer held itself up. I think both you and your mom would like it.
I really love your writing about your mom. You capture the complexity that is … well, life really, how many things can be true at once when you raise her in your writing. 👒
I so wish Substack would allow photos in comments, as Facebook does. But you know where to find me, Holly. My mother was a conundrum. I'll be writing about her forever.
I'm sorry it took me so long to read this lovely piece, Rona. Thank you for your beautiful prose.
Anytime suits me, Amanda. Readers have lives. Thank you for being here, reading.
I felt every word of this. Thank you.
And thank YOU for visiting and reding, Kimberly.
Thank you for this. I lost my mom just five months ago, and find your thoughts about blooming after your mom's death to be especially helpful and hopeful. I like to think that after the raw grief gives way to something more synthesized, that I will be able to find joy in bright, wild blooming (I think of dahlias here) as I walk, at 61, into this motherless place.
Be patient with yourself, and the dahlias will come. Thank you for joining the conversation,
Rona,
This is a lovely essay. Beautiful sentiments and beautiful writing.
A hat can be transformative. When I wear a certain summer hat, I'm told that I have "hat-a-tude."
Thank you, David. My husband is also a hat guy (more precisely, a cap guy). Why should women have all the fun?
A marvellous tribute to your mother! I really wish I had met her at least once. Had a drink with Doug Gibson (once a publishing competitor, now just a friend) last week and he said he had met her. I was terribly envious.
Met her? He acquired and edited her first, most beloved book. You and she would have enjoyed each other.