Mother
There is something both grounding about trying to know a person outside of the role they played in your life. For me, my mother was always just that, my mother. The one whose life seemed to begin the moment mine did. But now, through the pieces she left behind, I am beginning to meet her as a young woman, separate from me with her own world, her own choices, her own becoming.
She was born, raised, and lived her entire life on the same street in Concord, New Hampshire. There is something deeply rooted in this unwavering sense of place. One street that held her childhood, her courtship, her marriage, and her life as a mother. She did not wander far in miles.
What I am discovering is not dramatic or complicated, something quieter. She loved her family. She loved my father. She loved her home and her state. And she loved her faith, not as something spoken loudly, but as something ever present. These were not just parts of her life they were the framework of it.
As I look at her young adult years, I can see the decisions she made, the choices to stay, to build, and to commit. I am beginning to understand that the life I experienced did not just happen. It was created by the woman she already was.
It is easy to overlook this. To assume that our parents always existed as we view them, rather than recognizing that they became who they were long before we arrived.
My mother may never have left this street in Concord, but through her, I was given the courage to explore far beyond it.
The greatest influence in my life was not just the mother who raised me, but the young woman who chose the life that made me possible.
-Nancy Watson
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