Remembering mom
<Trigger warning: drug abuse and suicide are mentioned - events within the extended family>
Today, January 7th, 2026, would have been my mom’s 94th birthday. I’m taking a few moments to remember her on this day.
She was born into immense poverty, but you’d never know it if you met her. She believed deeply in her innate self-worth. She didn’t suffer from a lack of confidence—and I want to be clear that her confidence was not narcissistic. She didn’t compare herself to others. Emotions like envy or jealousy simply didn’t exist in her. She wasn’t petty, and while she did occasionally comment about other people, her comments were never mean or cruel in any way. She may have disagreed with a person's conduct (pretty normal for any person). Mostly though, she had a live and let live mindset. There wasn't much drama around mom. Generally speaking, she didn’t sweat the small stuff.
I probably should mention that mom had absolutely no filter. There was that time in the car (this would have been between 2016 to 2018), when my ex husband was driving and mom sat in the front (I was in the back) where she told my ex-husband about the circumstances of my conception. I was oblivious, as I was distracted by my phone. Apparently, I was conceived in the back of a car. I don't know who was watching my siblings at the time. It seems fitting, in some weird way, that I should be conceived in this manner. π€£ I guess I was never meant to be like the others (assuming this was the only time). That lack of filter in her was one of her most endearing qualities, and to be honest, I don't have much of a filter either. I do have one though - more than she did.
She never hit or spanked us kids either—that was my dad’s domain. She just couldn’t bring herself to discipline us that way. What she gave us instead was unconditional love.
Until my spiritual awakening, I'd felt true peace only a few times in my life. I have specific memories of feeling truly peaceful as child, when being held by her. How fortunate I was to be raised by such an extraordinary woman.
My mom was born in south Texas, near the Mexican border, into a family that I still consider extraordinary. Her mother—my grandmother—was highly respected within a very large and extended Mexican-American family. My grandmother had eleven siblings, plus what felt like a gazillion cousins π€£. I could never keep track of how everyone was related to us (second cousins, third cousins, fourth?), though they all somehow knew exactly who we were.
Her great-grandparents built a foundation of closeness that helped the family survive devastating losses. The family had once been prominent, back when Texas belonged to Mexico, but their land and wealth were stolen when white settlers arrived as conquerors of what later became Texas. It’s really that simple. They went from attending private schools to living at subsistence levels of poverty.
What sustained them was family. They survived illness, loss, and death through cohesion. The extended family was always there—always willing to help anyone who needed anything. They were loving, and that love was unconditional.
That didn’t mean there were no annoyances or grievances. But even when two people were at odds, they would still show up if help was needed. Anyone who married into the family was family—never an outsider. Family was a source of strength, and it mattered deeply to everyone.
One of my mom’s first cousins embodied that unconditional love in a way I’ll never forget. He fought in the Vietnam War. Lord only knows the atrocities he witnessed there. When he came home, he was already addicted to heroin.
I met him in the 1970s when I was a child. Once, he drove us kids to the movies—driving like he was in a high-speed police chase, straight out of those Gene Hackman movies like The French Connection. Maybe he had plenty of experience running from the police; he was wanted in several states for drug dealing.
He stole from the family too. Whenever he was around, things had a way of disappearing. Everyone knew. His addiction wasn’t a secret.
And yet—here’s what still amazes me—he was welcomed with hugs at every family gathering. He was treated respectfully. He was loved. Not trusted, but loved.
The family had deep compassion for what he had endured in Vietnam. They understood that the scars he carried were tied to his addiction. It was easier for him to hide from emotional pain with substances than to face it head-on. Who could blame him? The family understood.
My mom met my dad when he was stationed in Harlingen, Texas, while serving in the Air Force. They were set up on a blind date and married within six months. Soon after, my dad left the Air Force and found civilian work in Massachusetts, using the electronics skills he’d learned during service.
Leaving Texas was hard for my mom. She missed her family deeply. But she wanted her future children to be well educated, and Massachusetts offered greater educational opportunities she believed. She also hoped we’d be more worldly—her family had a way of treating Texas as the center of the world, but mom saw that there was a world beyond, and she wanted us to know that broader world.
Dad’s job paid well enough for them to buy a nice home and raise four children, with me being the youngest. Mom gave up her secretarial career when she married Dad, but she happily returned to work when I was twelve. She loved having her own money. She loved dressing well and took pride in her appearance right up until the end—always well dressed, always wearing makeup, always carrying herself with dignity.
You’d never guess she grew up in a home with dirt floors, picking cotton in the summers. She said they were poor, but they never felt poor. Their needs were met. My grandmother made beautiful clothes for her children. They grew their own food—citrus fruits and vegetables everywhere. There was always plenty of delicious fresh food.
Her father died when she was just ten years old. My grandmother went to work as a maid, and her sons were sent to live with relatives to ease her burden. Grandma was loving and wise. She never raised her voice. She didn’t have to. Her children adored her.
Life in Massachusetts wasn’t easy for my mom. Far from her family, she relied on regular phone calls with her mother, always spoken in Spanish—so I never knew what they talked about. She missed home terribly.
She loved her father-in-law, but not her mother-in-law (who mom felt was a bit narcissistic). My dad’s family was nothing like hers—not warm, not cohesive. My paternal grandmother's narcissistic ways was a source of tension. I can only imagine how that stark contrast increased the sense of distance she felt far from home. I honestly think my dad fell in love with my mom’s family as much as he fell in love with her. That’s why his ashes are interred in Texas with her family, not with his own.
Raising four kids, keeping the house immaculate, and feeding us (she was a great cook) must have been exhausting. I was her most difficult child—no contest. She called me “the angry one.” In order of birth, the others were: smart, social and sweet. Yet, I was angry π€£ . The only one with a negative adjective. I didn't fault mom though, she called things as she saw them. I did have intense tantrums, as if I had no capacity to process negative events. As I think back, she must have been a bit puzzled as to why I was so tantrummy, unlike the others.
When I threw myself screaming on store floors, mom had a genius response: she’d walk away and pretend she didn’t know me π€£. The sudden fear of abandonment snapped me out of it every time.
At home, when I'd have a tantrum, she’d put me in my room and tell me to stay there. I always did. There were no locks. My tantrums felt like seizures—uncontrollable, exhausting, ending only when I fell asleep. I wish parents understood this: sometimes kids just need to cry it out. Mom understood that instinctively.
When she returned to work after twenty years, she became indispensable. She was an admin—what they called a secretary back then—organized, professional, and deeply respected. She loved working. She loved earning her own money. She loved her coworkers.
One of my favorite dynamics between my parents still makes me smile. Mom didn’t drive—she was afraid of it—so Dad drove her everywhere. On Saturday mornings she’d say, “Everett, I’d like to go shopping today.”
Dad would respond by yelling, “God dammit, Elva!” and then complain about how much she liked to spend money. His rants tended to last several minutes.
Mom, calmly flipping through a catalog, would slyly smile and ignore him completely π€£.
She always got what she wanted and she knew this. She didn’t care about his reaction. And he adored her. He absolutely hated hanging around stores, while mom looked at every item on every rack. That's definitely not at all what dad wanted to do, but there he was. He spoiled her endlessly. I believe it was her quiet self-worth that magnetized him.
I would have loved to model her behavior, but I wasn’t healed enough back then. Some wounds came from this lifetime (from the intense bullying and social isolation I suffered from at school); other wounds, I believe, predated it. I was born with tantrums for a reason - and I had no negative experiences in this lifetime to warrant them. The good news is—I’ve come a long way.
I’m no longer reactive or fearful. Life is quieter now. Even politics doesn’t trigger me anymore. Healing, I think, is lifelong—but peace is possible.
Wherever my mom is, I believe she’s happy for me. Not proud—pride feels ego-driven—but happy that I’ve found my way.
One last story.
After my dad passed, my mom developed cerebral amyloid angiopathy (CAA)—leaky brain blood vessels due to amyloid. I always feared I’d find her on the floor one day from a brain bleed. And one day, that’s exactly what happened.
Earlier that same day, my sister’s grandson died by suicide at sixteen. His girlfriend had just broken up with him. He was on the phone with his ex girlfriend, holding a handgun. He put it to his head and pulled the trigger. Gone in an instant. I was devastated thinking about the family’s pain and the loss of such a young life. It felt like a senseless waste. Waste...that's the word that hung in my mind as I cried in the lab that day.
My siblings decided I should tell Mom in person. I tried calling her on my way there. She wasn't answering the phone. Anxiety started to well up inside of me. When I arrived, she didn’t answer the door. I looked through the sliding glass door around the back and saw her on the floor. She was alive, but tremoring. My fear had been realized.
She’d had a massive hemorrhagic stroke. I had to make the decision to let her go. She was eighty-seven. Saving her would have meant profound disability and likely another bleed anyway. It seemed right to let her go.
For four days, we kept vigil, never leaving her alone. At least one of us was with her at all times. During the day all of us were there. She passed on March 3rd, 2019—3/3.
At 3 p.m., while we waited to say goodbye one last time (as they prepared her body for the funeral home), the analog clock on the wall of the hospital waiting room began spinning wildly. It spun for minutes. We all watched in shock. Me, my husband and daughter, my brother and 2 sisters were all there, watching with astonishment. Grasping for explanation and finding none.
That was Mom—making things happen even from the other side.
People into spirituality attach meaning to numbers. 333 symbolizes growth, balance, encouragement, and trusting your path. My ego wants to assign meaning, as if mom were still telling us how to conduct our lives, even from the beyond. Then I remember that the ego loves to assign meaning without understanding anything. So I leave space for not knowing.
Thinking of you, Mom. π
Thank you for reading.
