I had this realization somewhere between a Gilmore Girls episode and a FaceTime call with my mom. Lorelai Gilmore was doing the thing she always does: trying to prove she is nothing like her mother, and yet, in every scene she becomes a little more Emily. Somewhere in that episode, I caught myself smiling—I saw myself in Lorelai and my mother in Emily.
When I was younger, turning into my mom was one of my biggest fears, and I don’t think I’m alone in this. We have all heard the fear in our voices when we say, “Oh my God, I sound like my mom,” or, “I look so much like my mom when I wear this top”. I used to understand this fear all too well. I thought it meant surrendering my independence, my spontaneity, my me-ness. My mother was the one who fell asleep at 3 a.m. on the yellow chair in the living room, who wore eyeshadow in every color of the rainbow, and who interjected her advice in every situation—not me. I had promised myself that I would be different.
However, as I grow into adulthood, I find myself resembling her personality more than ever. When my friends go through breakups, I sound like a remastered version of her giving out advice.
“Don’t worry too much if he broke up with you, he’ll realize he’s an idiot eventually and come back. They always come back.”
“Don’t rely on a man for anything.”
“You have yourself to fall back on.”
I hear her voice in mine when I worry about people, recognize her taste when I pick out new shoes, and embody her patience when I take a step back and remember to be grateful and courageous. Somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting our similarities, and started embracing them.
The older I get, the more I understand her quirks I once rolled my eyes at. Her habit of narrating every single thing she’s doing: It’s actually a form of connection to those around her. A way of saying, “I’m here with you,” even when she’s just making coffee. Her obsession with watching crime documentaries even when they terrify her: It’s her way of trying to make sense of the world. To remind herself that even when life gets messy or dark, there’s always some kind of justice at the end. Her need to get a souvenir glass every place she goes: Well, that one is still financially questionable, but it’s starting to make sense to me the more I travel.
I used to think I was Lorelai—the quick-witted, free-spirited one trying to prove she didn’t need anyone’s help. But the truth is, I’m realizing I’ve got a lot of Emily in me too. I like plans. I like ordering the same drink at every coffee shop. I like giving advice that sounds slightly too confident for someone who is still figuring things out herself. And honestly? There’s something kind of comforting about that.
Sometimes I’ll catch myself mid-sentence and realize I’m doing an impression of my mom without meaning to. The way I say, “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” before anyone leaves. The tone I use when I say, “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.” The little sigh I make when I finally get to take my bra off after a long day. It’s both terrifying and kind of magical. I inherited a language I didn’t even know I was learning.
What I’ve come to love most is the realization that turning into her doesn’t mean I’m losing myself. It means I’m carrying everything she’s taught me, even when we’re 1,000 miles away from each other. It means knowing that love doesn’t have to be loud to be steady. It means that I’ll probably fall asleep in my own yellow chair someday too.
Maybe that’s why I don’t flinch anymore when people say I remind them of her. I take it as a compliment. Because if turning into my mom means being the kind of person who gives great advice, laughs loudly, worries deeply, and always finds a reason to celebrate even the small things—then I hope I keep becoming more like her every day. I used to think I was turning into my mom by accident, but now I know it’s by design. She raised me to find love in tiny acts, and to let that love linger everywhere.
I’m not afraid of turning into my mother. If anything, I’m honored. I come from a long line of women who swore they’d never become their mothers, and still did, beautifully. Maybe the secret’s in the bright blue eyeshadow. Or maybe it’s just in the love that never skips a generation.