Early last month, January 2025, I decided to face a long time fear... drawing and painting faces. I am certain that there's a connection between this decision and my mother's death. As you know, my mom was an artist as am I. She could paint/draw anything with realism. I watched her paint as a young child and was in awe.

I read somewhere, and I'm paraphrasing, that when our mothers are gone we become the best version of ourselves, the one our mom always thought we could be. I have a theory on why this is true.

My mother's opinion was always the first opinion I sought for pretty much anything. And I always showed her my art as if I was a child looking for her approval. I guess I was looking for her approval, in truth.

She often asked me why I didn't paint "reality". This was a question that seared a bit in the back of my mind. It's only now I realized I didn't paint in a realistic manner because my mom was so darned good at it. I didn't want her to look at my work and think it was subpar. I'm well aware "subpar" is not the word she would have used or even thought. She may have thought to herself it needed more work, and she may have said, "that's nice". I knew what that meant though. 

I know my mom was always proud of me. She just had a way of saying things that sometimes hurt a bit. I also know that wasn't her intent, and I know that so often what my mom said was tied up in her opinions of herself. She was the kind of perfectionist that could break your heart. It was hard to watch. 

All of this to say, my mom's opinion was the first opinion that mattered in my life and continued to be the most important opinion to me whether I was conscious of that or not. That opinion in many ways stopped me from fully expressing myself. 

Was I overly enmeshed with my mom? Or are first born daughters always this way? I do not know. However, I know this with deep sadness, some regret and also some anger at myself: I'm free to be who I'm supposed to be now. I miss my mother from the deepest part of my soul. And, for whatever reason, I now have the key to the cage I put myself in.

And so, I draw. And paint and draw and paint and draw... with a fury. With a need to get out all that I let linger inside me for so long. "Why?", I ask myself. "Why did you bottle all of this up and not allow mom to see it?". 

I really don't know the answer to my questions beyond, the girl inside me is fragile. She always was. And my sweet mother who did all she knew to do to keep me safe, loved and protected could also shatter me. Maybe that was our relationship. Maybe that is partly the nature of mother and daughters. Good heavens I loved and love that lady. She is forever the biggest part of me. 

So for her, and for my daughters... I draw and I paint and I draw and I paint. And I say, let it all out, Ani and Emily. I love you. This is your time. And life is so very short.