Somewhere between the grocery lists taped to my fridge and the snacks I keep in my tote bag “just in case,” I realised something quietly beautiful – I’m becoming my mom – not all at once, but in tiny, ordinary ways that feel like growing into myself.
It wasn’t a dramatic realisation. It was a gradual recognition, the kind that settles in during adulthood when life feels loud and the days feel full. It showed up in the things I do instinctively now – the way I say “We have food at home” without thinking, or the way I can’t watch a movie without adjusting something, tidying something, moving something. My mom has always been someone who struggles to sit still, and somewhere along the way, I inherited that rhythm.
I inherited her relationship with time – the constant awareness of how much there is to do, how fleeting the hours can feel. Sleep sometimes makes me restless, like I’m losing time I should be using to be productive. I used to watch her fight that same feeling. Now I catch myself doing it too.
And then there’s the sensitivity. The emotional quickness we share, how our bodies have the same immediate response when someone hurts us, the same tightening in the chest, the same quiet withdrawal. I used to wish I were less reactive. Now I appreciate the honesty of it. My mom feels deeply, instinctively, wholeheartedly. And so do I.
But the older I get, the more I realise that the parts of myself I’m proudest of exist because of her – sometimes because she insisted, gently or otherwise.
My writing exists because she once told me, “Try it. Just see.”
My instinct to match my accessories to my outfit exists because I spent my childhood watching her get ready with quiet precision.
My love for dancing exists because she nudged me toward it long before I understood why.
Some of the most defining parts of me – the parts that make me feel most like myself – were things she placed in front of me before I was ready to see their value.
And then there’s the part I never expected to feel so much. The way I now cherish being compared to her.
When I was younger, being told I looked like my mom made me pull away – it felt like I was losing space to become myself. But now, when someone says I resemble her or sound like her, it hits me in a softer place. It doesn’t feel like I’m turning into someone else anymore – it feels like I’m finally growing into the parts of her I never understood then, but deeply admire now.
Growing up, I assumed becoming your mom was something that “just happened.”
Now I understand it differently.
It’s something you earn – piece by piece, habit by habit, year by year – as you grow into the parts of her that shaped you quietly but profoundly.
I’m not losing myself in the process.
I’m recognising myself more clearly.
And maybe that’s what this whole stage of life is – this strange, beautiful in-between space of college and adulthood. You start noticing the pieces of yourself that didn’t just appear out of nowhere. They were modelled, taught, repeated, and handed down.
Girlhood becomes womanhood in the smallest, most ordinary ways, and you realise you’re built from the women who came before you.
Her habits, her softness, her instincts – they show up quietly in my life now, in the way I handle stress, the way I care, the way I move through my day. And somehow, every time I recognise one, it makes me feel more like myself.
Growing up, I’ve realised, isn’t just about discovering who you are – it’s about understanding where you came from. The parts you fought, the parts you borrowed, the parts you grew into without noticing. It’s the gentlest kind of inheritance.
And if becoming my mom is part of mine, then honestly, I think I turned out just fine.