A few weeks before leaving home for college, I found an old Polaroid photograph of my mother while she was in her twenties. She looked carefree, vibrant, and deeply in love.
Looking at that photograph, two questions immediately came to mind: Who was this woman? And why didn’t I know her?
While growing up, I viewed my mother as strict, controlling, and overly involved in every aspect of my life. She insisted I tell her everything that happened each day, from my classes and homework to every conversation I had with friends and teachers. What she called concern felt, to me, like an endless interrogation.
“So, tell me about your day. What happened in first period? Did you talk to Mr. Gallaher like I asked you to? What about the book report, did you turn it in? OK.
“What did you do in second period? Nothing? Come on, what topic are you learning? Did they assign homework? OK, I want to print the assignment description,” she always asked.
The questioning felt like endless nagging at the end of a long day while growing up, and eventually, I stopped participating in our daily conversations altogether. Every request from her was met with a simple ‘no.’
In middle school, when she overheard my friends’ parents using my chosen nickname, Jackie, she yelled, “Don’t call her that!” and lectured them on why the name was “trashy.”
She discouraged makeup and insisted I wear modest clothing. Like many teenagers, I responded by rebelling, secretly changing clothes at school.
Now, as an adult, I recognize how my mom’s role as the primary authority in our home made it easier to reduce her to a rigid micromanager.
She was constantly around while my dad traveled for work, and the sheer amount of time she spent with me made her the parent who enforced rules and also the parent most likely to annoy me.
As I distanced myself, my mother stopped inviting me to join family activities, and although I often longed to reconnect, I didn’t know how to bridge the growing emotional gap between us.
The distancing didn’t help me add to my meager knowledge of my mom’s pre-kids life. Ironically, although she noted every minute detail of my life, my mom rarely shared stories about her own childhood or young adulthood.
She seldom mentioned her parents, siblings, or the experiences that shaped her. Whenever difficult topics arose, she changed the subject.
After finding the photo of her at my age, looking carefree and lovestruck, it felt like seeing a flash of light rebound off a mirror.
Curious about the picture, I began asking my father about their early years together. He told me stories I had never heard before, about how my mother had worked in Finland, loved living in Colorado, and spent evenings exploring Chicago’s jazz clubs with him.
For the first time, I saw her as more than just my mother. She had dreams, adventures, and a life that existed long before I was born.
After months of building the courage to talk to my mom directly, I discovered the details of how she had watched both her parents die, on her own.
While she was just 17 years old, she watched her father die after suffering a heart attack. She was the one who called emergency services, but help arrived too late.
Years later, while attending graduate school, she took time off to care for her mother, who was battling cancer. Within months, she lost her too.
With the revelations, suddenly I saw my mom as a complex woman who had survived unthinkable trauma, and I better understood her desire to learn everything about my life.
Today, at 23, I regret pushing her away. I understand that one day I, too, will only have memories of my parents, and I don’t want those memories to revolve solely around rules and arguments.
And when the time does come, I want to remember more than just my mom’s rules. I want to know real stuff: her dreams, the places she’s lived, the people she’s loved, and the sacrifices she made.
So I have started calling her more often. We spend intentional time together going on walks, bike rides, and exploring places we both enjoy.
During one visit to New York, a casual conversation at a restaurant led her to tell me about how her mother once worked as a bridal consultant helping women choose wedding dresses.
It was another flash of unexpected learning, and I listened raptly, feeling like I was with the woman in the photograph. Maybe that woman was always there; I just hadn’t noticed.
I have apologized to my mom for some things in the past; she’s done the same, and now our relationship is stronger than ever.
I still haven’t asked all the difficult questions, but I have started.
And perhaps that’s the greatest lesson of all: sometimes the people we think we know best are the ones whose stories we know the least.
This piece was previously published on HuffPost and is running again as part of HuffPost Personal’s “Best Of” series.
Jacqueline LeKachman is a New York-based freelance writer and English teacher who has contributed to The Washington Post, WIRED, Business Insider, and Shondaland.
