I don’t really know how to explain the bond I have with my mum without sounding a bit dramatic, but it’s always felt bigger than the typical mother-daughter dynamic. Some people talk about their parents like they’re these background characters who only materialise for life admin and obligatory holidays; mine has always been front and centre, stitched into everything I am. She’s the type of person who can tell my entire emotional state from the way I breathe down the phone. One “hey” and she’s asking what’s wrong which is equal parts comforting and annoying because I can’t even pretend I’m fine. She’s basically my human lie detector with nicer hair.

And yeah, some people find it weird how close we are. I’ll casually mention that my mum already knows all the tea and someone will look at me like I’ve just said she still has my location and actually checks it (she does x). But that’s just us. One of us doesn’t really happen without the other. If I’m somewhere, chances are she already knows the full backstory, the emotional context, and probably the outfit I’m wearing. If she likes you, congratulations you’ve been spiritually adopted. If she doesn’t…good luck to me. We’re basically a buy-one-get-one-free situation, except she’s the one everyone actually wants and I’m just there vibing.

Growing up is funny in the most painful way because you start to see your parents as something other than indestructible. There’s this slow, heart breaking shift from “my mum knows everything” to realising she’s winging it harder than I am half the time. When you’re little, she’s immortal. She’s the fixer of school dramas, the healer of bruised knees, the one who magically appears when you cry. Then one day you’re older, and you start noticing things you didn’t have the emotional vocabulary for before. The tiredness in her eyes. The way she sits a little too quietly some days. The stress she tries to hide in her voice. The moments where her own heart breaks and she pretends it didn’t. Watching all that from the viewpoint of an adult is its own kind of grief.

Nothing prepares you for the first time you see your mum truly hurting – not annoyed or stressed, but hurting – and you’re old enough to understand the weight of it. You realise there’s no magic shield around her. The world doesn’t go soft on her just because she went soft for you. She’s been carrying things she never said out loud. She’s survived chapters of her life you’ve never even read the summary of. And seeing that, understanding the full emotional impact of it, changes you. It makes you appreciate her in a way that feels deeper, heavier, more adult. You stop seeing her as this unshakeable figure and start seeing the woman behind everything she held together.

Honestly, she’s handled more than she ever gives herself credit for. I’ve watched her deal with things that would’ve sent me into a six month depressive episode and probably a questionable haircut. But she just…gets on with it. She’ll make a joke, pour a coffee, take a breath, and continue like the world didn’t just punch her in the stomach. And it’s not because she’s numb, it’s because she’s strong in a way most people will never understand.

And something I’ve become so aware of lately is how much I’ve learned from simply watching her. Seeing her finally stand up for herself, set boundaries, and stop shrinking to make other people feel comfortable has been one of the most quietly powerful things I’ve ever witnessed. She didn’t sit me down and teach me how to do it, she just did it for herself and without realising, she gave me permission to do the same. Watching her choose peace, choose growth, choose herself has changed me. And it makes me hope that we keep moving like that together. I hope we keep making each other stronger, keep holding each other accountable, keep helping each other grow – even if half the time we’re just winging it and hoping for the best.

Here’s the funny bit: she still doesn’t realise any of this. My mum is the strongest person I know, not because she tries to be but because she genuinely has no idea how strong she actually is. She’s the kind of naturally resilient that other people pretend to be. She’s funny in the way that only women who’ve lived real lives are funny – brutal honesty, horrifyingly accurate observations, and a level of sarcasm that should honestly be studied. She’s gentle without being fragile and fierce without being loud (well…the loud statement could be up for debate x). She’s the calm to every storm I create in my own head. She’s the reason life feels bearable on days where everything is just too much. If I had to pinpoint the centre of my world, it would be her, every single time.

We’ve always had this joke, except it’s not really a joke because we fully mean it, that in the next life we’ll look back on this one and say: “Remember that time I was your mum and you were my daughter? That was fucking mental”. Like we genuinely think we’ll be sitting somewhere as completely different versions of ourselves, absolutely howling over the chaos of this lifetime. And the best part? We’re both fully convinced we’ll find each other again. Different forms, different ages, different roles, but same energy. We’ll probably just bump into each other and instantly feel like, “Oh it’s you. There you are”.

I don’t care how unserious that sounds, it makes perfect sense to us. Because the way we balance each other doesn’t feel accidental. When she’s sad, I feel it like a bruise. When I’m stressed, she somehow knows before I even speak. It doesn’t feel learned; it feels remembered. Like our connection existed long before this life and is definitely not ending with it.

And look, she’s not perfect. She gets things wrong. She blurts out the most brutally honest shit at the exact worst moment. She gets overwhelmed. She forgets things. She emotionally reacts before thinking it through (wonder where I get that from). She’s human. This is her first go at life too. She didn’t get a guidebook or a script or a therapist in her pocket like we do. She didn’t grow up in a world that encouraged softness or expression or self-awareness. She learned by doing, by surviving, by trying again.

Understanding all of that doesn’t make me love her less, it makes me love her more. Because when you finally reach the age where you understand the full complexity of her life, her emotions, her experiences…you realise how much she actually gave. How much she carried for you. How much she hid so you didn’t have to feel it. How many times she swallowed her own pain to help you through yours.

And honestly, as a generation, we don’t say thank you enough. We’re amazing at analysing our trauma and setting boundaries and diagnosing ourselves with thirteen conditions after one TikTok, but sometimes we forget the compassion part. Our parents didn’t have the tools we do. They didn’t have mental health literacy. They didn’t have open conversations. They didn’t have the luxury of prioritising their emotional wellbeing. They did the best they could with whatever life handed them – and sometimes life handed them absolute shit.

And still, somehow, they made space for us.

I want my mum to know how much of me exists because of her. Everything good in me – the softness, the humour, the loyalty, the stubbornness, the resilience – it’s all stitched together from pieces she gave me. And the older I get, the more grateful I am for that.

And because she’s nosy, and because she will absolutely go searching for this the second she senses it might be about her, I want her to know this:

Everything I am is stitched together from everything you gave me. I adore you. And whatever versions of us come next, whatever lives we land in, whatever forms we take, I’ll look for you every single time.

But I also want her to know that she’s not just my mum. She’s my best friend. She’s the person I tell everything to, the person I laugh with until my stomach hurts, the person who somehow makes life make sense when nothing else does. She’s the one I want to call when something amazing happens, and the one I want to sit with when everything falls apart. I hope she understands how much I love her, how much I appreciate her, how much lighter she makes the world just by being in it. I wouldn’t be half the person I am without her, and I wouldn’t want to do any version of my life without her in it.

Mum, if you’re reading this, you’re the best part of my whole story.

— Lilly x