When I was a little girl, I would sit and watch my mom get ready for hours. How she would meticulously place her eye liner, open her mouth to apply her mascara, and do a silly face in the mirror before deciding everything was perfect. I wanted to be just like her. I would raid her closet full of brightly colored dresses and scarves, her professional outfits she wore to work— but most importantly (and a personal favorite of mine), her sparkly silver heels. I would wear them around the house, tripping over myself constantly.
Even years later, my mom’s routine had stayed the same. As I stepped into my teenage years, I no longer just admired my mom’s routine— I began to understand it. I realized that it wasn’t just about looking good; it was about feeling good and presenting that notion to the world. It was her ritual, a sacred practice she had perfected over the years, creating her armor. I found myself mirroring her more than ever. I would wake up early to do my eyeliner, the same way I watched her do it. And learned to pick out outfits that made me feel put together— even when I wasn’t. Â
Like my mom, I carried the weight of responsibility with a quiet resilience. It was after my parents’ divorce that I had to step up into my role as an older sister. I was young, but following my mom’s footsteps, I decided I would take on that maternal role for my sisters. I was the only consistent thing in our lives. I thought they deserved to have what I grew up with, more than just half of the time. Over time, the sparkly silver heels became less of a playful accessory and more of a symbol. They reminded me of the woman who balanced grace and strength so effortlessly.
But with my newfound responsibility, I also started to see the struggles she never let me witness before. She worked multiple jobs and long hours to make sure we never had to suffer or question where our next meal was coming from. Her exhaustion was hidden behind a flawless application of concealer, and her mood always masked by a bold smile. But no matter how hard I tried, I was not my mother. And I did try. I helped my sisters with homework, drove them to and from school, woke them up every morning, and attempted to cook them meals when my parents were working (which unfortunately for my sisters I am no chef, and my parents worked quite often). It made me come to appreciate and see all that my mom had done for us. All she had sacrificed. There were nights when the weight of it all crushed me. How mean I was to her when I felt the pressure of the world weighing on me, how angry I was to always be taking care of my sisters; and yet, still wondering if I was doing enough, if I was properly maintaining the peace my family lost so young. And I wondered if my mom had felt this way too. Â
It got to point where it was too much for me, and I left (ironically during the year I worked myself crazy, much like both of my parents).  A year had passed with no-contact between me and my mom, but we agreed to meet on my 18th birthday, and that is when I began to finally understand what it was all for. Why she would work herself restless, why she always served herself less at dinner, and why out of all things, she spent so much time on her sacred routine. It was simply because it made her feel stronger; that ritual she practiced every morning helped her face the day and continue on each day (even if she didn’t always know what was up ahead).
So, my mom wasn’t just strong because she never showed fear, she was strong because she faced it head-on. Thats when I realized, I wasn’t just trying to be like my mom anymore. A part of her was already in me. She still has those sparkly silver heels, of course they’re a little more worn and perhaps a little less dazzling, but to me they shine even brighter than before. They’re no longer a symbol of perfection and idolization, but rather a reminder to true beauty and real strength being found in the moments not everyone can see. I am forever grateful for the women my mom has raised me to be, and I will always hold those sparkly silver heels in a special place of my heart. Â