Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Raspberry Projects

    (Nobody else probably will find this interesting, but I’ve had my meds today, and I’m feeling good. So here goes…)

    A few months ago, I did a deep dive into the genealogy of Jesus. I wanted to know – from a historical perspective – how Adam became a baby in a manger.

    On first read, the long lists of names are impossible to pronounce – and they’re even harder to focus on. I wondered why they mattered.

    So we have Adam – the first man. The beginning of humanity.

    Then sin. Shame. Separation.

    But instead of scrapping the whole thing and starting over, God begins a thread. A lineage. A promise that progresses generation by generation, even as humanity stumbles throughout history.

    From Adam comes Seth.

    From Seth comes Enosh.

    And the line continues through people we know almost nothing about, other than their names.

    Nevertheless, these people weren’t small. Every name carried the promise in a forward motion.

    Through Noah, the world is preserved.

    Through Abraham, the promise is spoken.

    Through Isaac and Jacob, it is passed down.

    Through Judah, it takes shape.

    Through David, it becomes royal.

    And God still wasn’t finished.

    So, now, when people talk about how God never planned for divorce, or blended families, or dysfunction, I laugh internally. Because that’s not what the Bible says. If this lineage were about perfection, it would be a very short list. Instead, Jesus’ ancestors include people who doubted, people who lied, people who made devastating choices, outsiders, and women whose stories were unconventional. There’s no such thing as a polished family tree…which, in my mind, makes God’s initial plan even more remarkable…because it means that the story of redemption was never dependent on perfect people – only on a faithful God.

    In the New Testament, two genealogies are recorded. One traces the legal line, through kings and authority, and the other traces the biological line, through ordinary generations.

    Two different paths. One destination. Both leading to the same child.

    And after waiting and hoping and carrying the promise forward, Jesus is born. Not in a palace. Not into power. But into a family line that had been carefully, intentionally preserved from the very beginning.

    From Adam to Abraham. And from Abraham to David. And from David to a carpenter and teenaged girl in a small town.

    Nothing rushed. But nothing accidental either.

    It’s easy to look at our own lives and feel like things are random. Disconnected. Like days blur together without much meaning.

    But the genealogy of Jesus tells me a different story. It reminds me that God works across generations, not just in moments. I’m reminded that faithfulness matters, even when it’s small. It means that ordinary lives fill an extraordinary purpose. And it means that our inability to see the plan does not eliminate the plan altogether.

    Every name mattered. Every life contributed. Every step brought the story closer to fulfillment.

    So what started for me as a history project (under the duress of A.D.D.) ended as a reminder that God has always been writing a story that spans far beyond what we can see.

    And if He was intentional then, He is no less intentional now.

    My life feels so ordinary. Messy. Like I’m just another name in a long line of days.

    But so were theirs.

    And look what God did with that.

  • Independent Raspberry

    “I’ll just do it myself.”

    I don’t always say it out loud. But I think it. Often.

    It sounds efficient. Practical – on the surface. Faster. Simpler. Less complicated.

    No waiting. No explaining. No depending on anyone else.

    Just handle it and move on.

    But it’s not just about getting things done. If I’m being honest, it’s sometimes about control.

    If I do it myself, I know how it’s going to turn out.
    I know I’ll get it done.
    I know I won’t be disappointed.

    There’s comfort and safety in that.

    It hasn’t come out of nowhere. It’s built over time.

    From moments where I felt let down.
    From times when things didn’t go the way I’d hoped.
    From experiences that taught me it might be easier to rely on myself.

    So I adapted.

    I became more independent.
    More self-sufficient.
    More…controlled.

    But that phrase carries a lot of weight. Doing everything myself means carrying everything myself.

    The responsibility.
    The pressure.
    The mental load.

    Strong on the outside. But heavy on the inside.

    There’s a cost that comes with defaulting to “I’ll just do it myself.”

    It limits connection.
    Creates distance.
    And resentment.
    It delivers itself as “I don’t need you,” when that is not entirely true.

    And sometimes, it keeps me from experiencing support that might actually be there – if I let it.

    I don’t think independence is a bad thing. It’s helped me in a lot of ways. But I’m starting to see that there is a difference between being capable and being closed off…between being responsible and being unwilling to let someone else in.

    So I’m trying something different. Not all at once and certainly not perfectly.

    I am letting go.
    I’m handling what I can and leaving others to do what is their responsibility.

    That is uncomfortable for me.
    But so is carrying everything alone.

    “I’ll just do it myself” used to feel like strength. And in some ways, it still is.

    But strength now looks a little different. Sometimes the real strength these days lies in trusting that not everything has to rest on my shoulders.

  • Trusting Raspberry

    There’s a version of trust that feels easy.

    When things are going well.
    When prayers are being answered.
    When life makes sense.

    And it’s not hard to trust the Lord in those moments.

    But there is another version of trust that shows up for when we don’t like the situations we’re in.

    And that kind is more difficult.

    Sometimes trusting God doesn’t feel calm. It feels uncomfortable.

    Like sitting in something I didn’t choose.
    Like waiting longer than you expected.
    Like carrying questions to which I do not have answers yet.

    In those moments, trust doesn’t feel like confidence. It feels like restraint.

    There are times when everything in me wants to fix the situation. Take control and change it, escape it, and force an outcome. And during those times, trusting God means staying where I am. Not because I’m stuck, but because I’m choosing not to run ahead of things I don’t always understand.

    I like clarity. I like knowing what’s happening and why. But there are situations where answers don’t come right away. If at all. And trusting Him means accepting that I don’t need to understand everything to move forward. Even when I want to.

    Sometimes I wish that trust felt stronger. More confident. More certain. But often, it looks like doing the right thing even when I don’t feel aligned with it emotionally. Showing up, making steady decisions, and choosing integrity, even when it doesn’t feel great.

    I don’t pretend everything is fine. I talk to Jesus in frustration, confusion, even sometimes anger. But it is the truth. “God, I don’t like this, I don’t understand this, and this is harder than I thought it would be.” But talking to Him is a choice to stay connected. And that is always the right decision.

    It looks like letting go of the need for control. Making the daily decision to get out of bed and hand it over. And that might be the hardest part. Letting go once isn’t the challenge, but letting go repeatedly is harder. Every time my mind tries to take control back, every time I start to manage outcomes, every time I want to force things into place, but releasing it anyway.

    And it looks quiet. In difficult seasons, trust isn’t loud. It’s not always bold declaration. It looks like continuing, enduring, and choosing not to give up, even when nothing around me has changed.

    Trusting the Lord when I don’t like the situation isn’t about pretending said situation is good. It’s about believing He is good, despite the circumstances. And even though that trust doesn’t feel strong in the moment, it’s real. And it matters.

  • Raspberry Unnoticed

    There’s a version of my life that exists right now that no one can really sees. Not because I’m hiding it, but because it isn’t loud. It isn’t obvious. It isn’t something someone could identify. It’s been a quiet build. Gradual.

    It’s built in small decisions. Not made of big moments, but smaller ones. Choosing honesty when it would be easier and maybe even inconsequential to resume old patterns. Pausing instead of reacting. Staying where I used to run.

    No one sees these things. Except for me. I notice, because they matter.

    And it’s built in consistency. Nothing flashy. Repetitive. Quiet. Boring. But it’s also where real change happens. Not in what I do once, but in what I do over and over again.

    It’s built in restraint. There are things I don’t do anymore. Not because I can’t but because I won’t. Choices I don’t make. Patterns I don’t follow. Thoughts I don’t expound upon. And no one applauds restraint, but it is one of the strongest forms of growth.

    It’s built in moments no one notices. The reaction I don’t give. The responses I soften. Situations I handle differently than I used to. Those moments don’t get attention. But they’re shaping something real.

    It doesn’t need validation, even though there was a time I wanted progress to be visible and acknowledged. But I learned that what I am building does not require an audience. It just requires consistency.

    I’m not finished. I’m not where I want to be yet. Not even close. But I’m not where I used to be either. And the steady, quiet, unseen space between one and other is where the real work is happening.

    The most meaningful things I’m building right now can’t be measured by what people see. They’re measured by what I choose. By how I respond. By what I no longer allow. By who I’m becoming when no one is watching.

    And even if no one else can see it yet, I can. And that’s enough for me.

  • Slippery Raspberry

    I once equated “slipping” to failure. That if I found myself thinking the same thoughts, feeling the same burgers, leaning toward the same patterns, then nothing had really changed.

    But I don’t see it that way anymore.

    Slipping isn’t the same as going back. It’s often just a moment.

    What matters most is what I do next.

    1. I notice it sooner. This is the first difference. Before, I’d hold the same pattern for days. Sometimes longer. Without fully even recognizing it. Now, I catch myself more quickly. A thought that feels familiar, a reaction that feels automatic, an urge that feels a little too comfortable. That awareness matters – because you can’t interrupt something you don’t see clearly.
    2. I pause instead of acting immediately. My instincts can’t be trusted. They used to be “feel —> react.” Now I try to create space. Even if it’s just a few minutes. I don’t respond right away or act on my first impulse. I interrupt thoughts halfway through. And those small pauses have changed everything.
    3. I ask myself what’s actually happening. Slipping usually isn’t random. There’s something underneath it. Stress. Loneliness. Frustration. Fatigue. In other words, a trigger. So instead of jumping to judgment toward myself, I try to be curious. “Why does this feel appealing right now, and what am I trying to avoid/fix?” Those questions help me respond instead of react.
    4. I don’t panic. This one took time. Slipping used to trigger a spiral. Just tonight, I had a moment of dishonesty, and contemplated whether or not I should even write in my prayer journal – because if I can’t get it right, why bother at all? If I immediately return to impulse, has anything really changed? Don’t I have to start all over? What if I repeat everything all over again? Now I try to remind myself that moments aren’t patterns and thoughts are not decisions. I don’t have to follow something just because I felt it.
    5. I redirect. In moments like these, I don’t try to fix everything in the moment. I just choose something different. My impulse just a few hours ago led me here – to my blog. I’m not spiraling into shame. I’m just stepping away, changing my environment, and doing something grounding to shift my focus. My small mistakes now aren’t dramatic, because I don’t allow that. I just switch the activity, and usually that works.
    6. I choose the next right thing. Not the perfect thing. Not the ideal outcome. Just the next right step. Tonight, for me, I followed my impulse with redirection, like I said, and tomorrow, I’ll correct the statement I made impulsively (I can’t do it tonight because it’s too late). One honest response, one restrained reaction, one better decision than I would’ve made before…those are always the next right things.
    7. I reflect later, and not in the moment. After things settle, I go back and look at it. Not to criticize myself, but to understand what triggered it, and reflect on what to do differently next time. That reflection has helped turn slips into progress.
    8. I remind myself that I’m not starting over. This might be the most important part. I am not back at the beginning, as if all the progress I’ve made and all the work I’ve done has meant nothing. I’m not the same person I was. And the fact that I now notice…pause…question…and choose differently is the change.

    Slipping back into old habits and old reactions does not undo any progress I’ve made. It means I’m human. What matters the most is whether or not I stay there…or whether I catch myself and choose differently. And every time I do that – even imperfectly – I’m reinforcing something new. It’s not perfect. But it’s more aware. More grounded. And that the version I am working toward.

  • Uncharted Raspberry Territory

    I talked yesterday about uncertainty…where I am in my life now. Why I don’t like the feeling of “not knowing.”

    I know that the Lord knows that. I tell Him all the time that I don’t like this. I don’t like not being able to plan. I don’t like not knowing what to do all the time.

    But I also know that He’s in control, and I believe He has stripped me of an itinerary because He knows I’d screw the pooch.

    Something I’m dealing with that’s new? This stage of motherhood. It’s different. Complicated.

    There are still lunches to pack. Schedules to keep. Conversations to have.

    There are still moments where I’m “needed.” And I show up. Like I always have. On days when I’m tired. On days when my mind is somewhere else. On days when I know I am not doing it perfectly…

    …because we don’t stop being a mom just because we don’t feel like it.

    I watch other moms – who seem to know exactly what they’re doing – who have no problem flaunting their “perfection” – and it makes me doubt if I’ve ever done any of it right.

    I see other moms post pictures of their kids on social media, and I question myself. One of my kids isn’t even speaking to me. And the other is almost grown and seemingly halfway out the door.

    That’s a different kind of hurt. To do the best I can and still be rejected? Still be manipulated? Still be unappreciated?

    And it’s where my head has been for the last week or so. I used to think being a “good mom” meant being able to guide everything. Protect everything. Shape everything.

    But the harder lesson is that I can love deeply…and still not be able to control outcomes. I can care, and still not be chosen in the way I’d hoped.

    It’s all a farce – to raise children and then let them go. It’s the hardest thing I’ll ever do. Being a mom, especially when your little ones become teenagers, isn’t always loud or busy. Sometimes it’s quiet. My house feels still. Moments feel slower now. And in that quiet, I have thought. I’ve reflected. I’ve felt. And those raw feelings are so uncomfortable that, at times, I can barely breathe.

    I carry more than I say. There are things I think about that I can’t say out loud. The worry. The hope. The questions. The kind of thoughts that sit low and heavy in my chest while I go about my day, while practicing patience and restraint, while biting my tongue, while forking over hundreds of dollars that seem to go unnoticed, and while being quietly judged and neglected by the same people to which your entire life has been devoted.

    (And yes, I know kids should not be tasked with managing the emotions of their parents. That’s why I don’t express my emotions to them. But I will express them here, because that’s allowed.)

    The kind of mom I want to be – with big kids – looks different than it did before. It feels like letting go, a little at a time. Letting go of control. Expectations. How I thought things “would” look. Learning to love what is, even when it’s different than what I imagined. Even when things aren’t “just so.” Even when it’s complicated. Even when I question myself.

    I’m still here. Still loving. Still trying. Still choosing to respect “boundaries,” even if they’re walls and not boundaries at all. Still giving grace, even when it isn’t returned. Still holding space, even if it feels like a hole in my heart. And still praying. Forever and always.

    I’m not perfect. But I’m here. I continue to love, even when it’s overlooked. I continue to grow, for myself, by myself, even though it’s uncomfortable. And I show up, even though the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

    It has not been easy for me to separate who I am from my kids. I know there is a space that exists for both. But I can’t seem to find that sweet spot – the line where my kids end and I begin. As they have grown…as they have become individuals…I am reminded that independent kids are well-raised kids. The quiet grief that moms feel when that happens, though? That’s real.

    And I’m working through it…one day – sometimes even one hour – at a time.

  • Uncertain Raspberry

    I’m in a strange season right now. The kind where so many circumstances in my life feel…unsettled.

    Nothing is falling apart.
    Nothing is completely stable either.

    Just…uncertain.

    Things I can’t control.
    Things I can’t predict.
    Things for which I don’t have answers yet.

    And if I am being honest, I don’t love the way that feels. I like clarity. I like knowing what’s coming. I like having a plan. I like knowing that things are handled. And uncertainty doesn’t offer any of that. It asks me to be patient. It asks for trust. For waiting. And none of those things come naturally to me.

    But while everything around me feels a little unclear, something inside me is becoming more defined.

    Not perfect.
    Not finished.
    But clearer.

    I don’t have the same energy for pretending anymore.

    Not with myself. Definitely not with other people. Honesty is quieter these days. Less dramatic. But more consistent.

    Not even a year ago, uncertainty would’ve pulled me in a hundred different directions. Emotionally. Mentally. Even in my decisions.

    Now I’m learning how to stay. To not react immediately. To not spiral as quickly. To not abandon myself in the middle of discomfort.

    That lack of reaction is not natural. I have had to work at it. I have to be intentional and think about the kind of person I am working to be. Not necessarily in big moments, but in how I respond, what I say, and what I choose. What other people have probably already mastered at my age – in the way of those habits – I am still working on. And that’s okay. I’m doing it now. And that matters more than not doing it at all.

    I am becoming someone I can sit with. And that might be the biggest shift, because there was a time when being alone with my thoughts was unbearable. Now, it’s not easy, but it’s manageable. I don’t try to escape it anymore.

    I have tried so hard for so long to control everything around me. But I am learning that I cannot force outcomes. I can’t guarantee external stability. And I can’t predict what’s coming next.

    I only have control over who I’m becoming in the middle of it. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe certainty isn’t the goal. Maybe…formation is. Maybe this space – where things feel unfinished and unclear on the outside – is where something more stable is being built internally.

    I still don’t love this lack of certainty. I don’t think that’s something I can ever learn to love. But I see now that even when everything around me is unclear, I’m not. And the person I am becoming in this season – more honest, more steady, more grounded – feels like someone I can trust, even in the middle of uncertainty.

  • Unchosen Raspberry

    My whole life, I’ve worked to be “chosen.”

    Chosen by friends.
    Chosen by men.
    Chosen by family.
    Chosen by anyone who could potentially look at me and decide I was work keeping.

    I didn’t always know what I was doing. I thought that the way we show appreciation for relationships was through effort.

    So it didn’t feel like chasing. It felt like trying.

    Trying to be good.
    Trying to be easy to love.
    Trying to be whatever version of myself would make someone pause long enough to think, “her.”

    If I was kinder, maybe I’d be chosen.
    If I was quieter, maybe they’d stay.
    If I forgave faster, gave more, needed less – maybe then.

    And when I was chosen, even briefly, it felt like oxygen.

    Proof.

    Validation that I’d finally gotten something right. Evidence that hard work really does pay off. Trackable confirmation that I was respected, appreciated, valued, and loved.

    But the problem with building your identity around being “chosen” is that it hands your worth to other people. And all of the sudden, their attention feels like stability. And their absence feels like collapse.

    I didn’t notice how much of myself I was editing – or changing – until I started to feel…empty.

    Not necessarily broken (although I am that, too). Just…undefined. Like I had spent so much time becoming what other people needed that I had no idea who I was, or what I needed. Or worse – I knew, but I didn’t think it mattered. Because being chosen mattered more.

    There is an overwhelming grief associated with how much I have tolerated just to “keep.”

    How many red flags I explained away.
    How many boundaries I softened – or erased completely.
    How many lunches I bought just to be invited out.
    How many times I told myself, “This is enough,” when it wasn’t.

    Change my hair. Wear the dress. Overspend. Laugh at the joke. Smile no matter the feeling.

    Not because I didn’t see clearly. But because being chosen felt safer than being alone. I love people without hesitation. Without reservations. And without transaction. Yet – somehow – it has always seemed like I am not enough unless those I love benefit – in some way – by my existence.

    But lately, something has been shifting inside my soul. Not dramatically or even all at once. But I’ve examined myself carefully enough over the last several months to ponder, “What if I stopped trying to be chosen?”

    And I’m terrified. Because I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to “let” people leave. I don’t know how to stop fighting for or clinging to relationships.

    If I’m not performing for approval, then what am I doing? If I’m not adjusting to be kept, then what happens when people leave?

    Loneliness is an anxiety that looms over my head. As kids have grown, as family have created distance, as my spouse unfairly inherited a metaphorical clock on his life, I wonder how long I have left with anybody…as if every connection is just a ticking time bomb. I anticipate – in my mind – a future in isolation. And out of reflex, I find myself already withdrawing…because committing to people who will eventually leave seems like a waste of money, time, and energy.

    And then I wonder if I’m introverted by choice, or if the choices I have made indirect to my personality have somehow forced me into seclusion.

    Nevertheless, I have tried to commit to a different approach.

    I choose to tell the truth, even if it costs me comfort.
    I choose to notice how I feel, not just how I’m perceived.
    I choose to stay with myself, even when it would be easier to abandon my own needs to keep someone else close.

    And this isn’t the pretty part. I still feel the pull to be picked. Every day, I catch myself over-giving, over-extending, overworking, and wondering, “Am I enough for them?”

    At my age, old habits – like constantly questioning myself – die hard.

    But there are times now when another voice – like background noise – whispers to me.

    “Am I enough for myself?”

    And for the first time in my almost 39 years, I wonder if being chosen is the highest form of love.

    Perhaps being known is higher. Perhaps it means more to be respected. Or maybe the safety that comes with being fully myself – without overage, without editing, without shrinking, without performing – should matter more.

    The affliction of not being chosen is palpable in my spirit.
    Embarrassingly so…

    …and I wonder how much more work it would take to shift my focus – from being chosen by others – to choosing myself.

    That seems selfish. And I’m not a selfish person.

    But what if I didn’t trade peace for proximity?
    What if I stopped ignoring my needs to earn someone’s attention or affection?
    What if I do not call something “love” if I have to disappear to hold onto it?

    My whole life, I’ve worked to be “chosen.”

    But maybe the life I actually want can’t be built on someone else picking me or holding me or prioritizing me or even halfway reciprocating my effort.

    Maybe – instead – it’ll be built on my standing still long enough to recognize that I was never unchosen to begin with.

    I just never learned how to stand on my own side.

    And I don’t know how to do it…yet. But maybe that’s worth my energy.

  • Raspberry Prayers

    I once heard someone say that the devil can hear the words we say out loud, and in fact, those words are sometimes what he uses as an opening to create chaos in our lives.

    I started a prayer journal in September, and while I wonder if the devil can read the words, I still write my nightly prayer in the journal. I think it started out as something obligatory – I wanted to pray every day – and I wanted to be able to track it.

    Now, I find myself utilizing that journal for continuity, and because it is a habit. But I talk to Jesus all day…

    …because I learned that praying isn’t just a task to complete every day. It’s not a habit to track. For me, now, it’s a way of life. I know what happens when I don’t pray. And I don’t want any part of that life anymore.

    I pray while I’m getting ready for the day. I pray in the car while running errands. I pray when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when I’m overwhelmed. I pray when my feelings are hurt. I pray when I’m lonely. I pray when I mess up. And I pray when faced with any decision, no matter how insignificant it seems at the time.

    I talk him Jesus like I would talk to a human being standing in front of me. Sometimes it’s emotional. Other times He’s just helping me pick out a cantaloupe.

    But not all of my prayers out spoken…out loud.

    Some of them don’t make it past my thoughts.
    Some of them don’t feel polished enough to say.
    Some of them feel too honest. Too raw. Too unfinished.

    There are prayers I don’t say out loud because they don’t sound the way I used to think prayers are “supposed” to sound. They’re not structured. They trail off when my ADD kicks in. They aren’t confident or full of faith.

    This morning, I thought, “Lord, I have no idea what you’re doing. And I don’t like not knowing. I don’t know if I can do this.”

    And then I got out of my car and paid the groomer.

    Likewise, there are some prayers I hesitate to verbalize because they reveal things I am still working through. Fear. Doubt. Insecurity. Anger. Frustration. Guilt/Shame. Not because I think the Lord doesn’t already know, but because saying them out loud makes them real in a way that feels too vulnerable. I don’t want to open any doors for the devil that I haven’t already opened.

    Those prayers, in my head, sound like, “Lord, please lift the anger I have toward [insert person here],” or, “God, I can’t do everything for everybody and I’m becoming resentful,” or even, “Please help me learn how to set boundaries that are Godly and healthy.”

    And some of my prayers don’t come with resolution. The prayers I repeat…they just sit there. Unanswered. Unfinished. “Is this ever going to get better?” or “Am I doing the right thing?” or “Will this situation ever change?” I don’t always say those prayers out loud because I don’t know what to do with the silence that might follow.

    There are also some prayers I don’t say because I carry them quietly. In the middle of the day. While I’m working or folding laundry. While I’m ruminating. While I’m trying to hold everything together. These types of prayers aren’t traditional. I just simply ask the Lord to help me stay steady, help me not react, and to help me do the right thing is “x” situation. Short. Simple. But constant.

    I’m starting to realize that God doesn’t require perfect words. He doesn’t need polished sentences or King James Version language. He doesn’t even require carefully structured thoughts. He already sees what I hesitate to say and He understands my thoughts that seem unfinished…the ones that don’t sound strong. The ones that don’t feel faithful enough.

    Those prayers still count. He still hears them.

    Not every prayer needs to be spoken to be real, and the truth is that He appreciates genuineness and sincerity more than a buttoned down version of me that I can’t walk in all of the time.

    Some of my prayers live in quiet places in my heart and in the spaces between thoughts. In moments where all I can do is sit with what I’m feeling and hope Jesus understands what I can’t quite enunciate.

    I hope He does. Maybe He always has.

  • Raspberry’s Mama

    In keeping with yesterday’s theme, below is a short list of ways that I realize how awesome my mom is.

    1. She understood the value of education. I moved in with her the day after I graduated from high school, I moved in with her, which was kind of a spontaneous thing. And six weeks later, I was fully enrolled in college. Mama spent a long time filling out FAFSA forms and making sure my first semester was set up. All I had to do was pick my classes.
    2. She has not judged my worst mistakes. Mama has seen me deal with some really terrible situations because of my own awful choices. Not once has she judged me or put me off. She meets me where I am when my life is falling apart, and she provides clarity when I need it the most.
    3. She supported me fully after I gave birth for the first time. I remember being 19 and post partum. I called her crying because I had no idea what I was doing. Without hesitation, she got in her car and drove to my house, and let me take a shower while she put the baby to sleep. I remember feeling incompetent at the time – because she was able to handle it with such ease – but I was also very grateful for that support. I still am.
    4. She forgives without reservation. I held a grudge against my mom for a long time. I didn’t understand some of her decisions when I was young. I had a lot of things to say about what it meant to be an adult – to be a mom – having lived through none of it. Now that I’m older, with kids of my own, I see how hard it is. And I have had to apologize to her for being so judgmental…for being so bitter and ignorant. And without pause, she greeted me with hugs and acceptance.
    5. She (and my stepdad) bought my first “me” car. I drove Daddy’s van in high school – back and forth to work and to afterschool stuff (like band). Before I started college, as a high school graduation present, Mama and my stepdad bought me a car – a 1997 Honda Civic. Tiny little zippy thing. White. Manual shift. I drove the wheels off of that thing.
    6. She is the most fun person to watch basketball with. We are both University of Kentucky fans, and as such, we have bonded over basketball. I don’t do it as much as I should anymore, but I used to go to her house weekly to watch the game and eat junk food.
    7. She taught me how to do my nails on the cheap. I know that might seem silly, but now that girlies can’t walk out of a nail salon for less than about $75.00, I genuinely appreciate Mama for showing me how to make a Dollar Store set look like the real thing.
    8. She gave me a place to stay when I wasn’t doing well. At one point in my life, my decisions had put me in a terrible place. I was homeless, jobless, and “schmuicidal.” She had little girls at the time, too, but she still took me in and helped me get back on my feet. I don’t know that I’d be where I am today if she hadn’t made that sacrifice.
    9. She has walked with me while navigating my husband’s illness. She’s been to MRIs, biopsies, and doctor’s appointments so that I could work. She’s researched and educated herself so that she stays informed about his illness, his treatment plan, and his prognoses. Cancer – dealing with it – can be very isolating, and I’m so blessed to have her with me while we try to navigate things we do not know.
    10. She compliments my food. I’m not much of a cook, but when I do cook for her – even if it’s just, like, a dip – she always makes a point to tell me how yummy it is. As there are so many amazing cooks in my family, I am definitely insecure about my limitations in this regard, so it is nice of her to take the time to express appreciation for what little I can do.

    I reserve the right to edit/add on to this list as needed.