This morning, I rolled out my yoga mat, hoping to shake off the Monday morning parenting frustrations that come with getting back into routine after spring break. As I moved through the practice, the instructor invited us to think of someone who is very easy to love

.

Immediately, my mom came to mind.

Today is her 78th birthday, and as I moved through poses, stretching and grounding myself, I thought about what I once overlooked, what I now see so clearly, and the cost of the system that had me looking past her magic for so long.

Growing up, I put my mom in second place.

My dad was my hero. He had a PhD in electrical engineering and worked as a pilot for United Airlines—both things I found wildly impressive. He handled the finances. He had the final say. He held the power.

And I wanted to be just like him.

Meanwhile, my mom—who ran the house, fed us, made our clothes, built a business, and kept everything together—was doing the unseen work. The work that doesn’t come with promotions, titles, or accolades. The work that is expected but rarely honored.

And I didn’t see it.

I thought what she did wasn’t as important. Because the world I grew up in, the air I breathed, told me it wasn’t. The patriarchy teaches us that men’s work—men’s achievements—matter more.

It teaches us that caregiving, homemaking, nurturing, tending to the details of life are secondary.

And worse—it teaches girls and women that our own power, our bodies, our strengths, our softness, our very essence is less than.

It wasn’t just that I devalued my mom.

I devalued myself.

The patriarchy is not just a system of power that benefits men. It’s a belief system that gets inside us—that teaches us to turn against our own bodies, our own nature.

I learned to:

• Reject my femininity.

• Shut down softness, emotions, vulnerability.

• Disconnect from my body.

• See masculinity as the path to respect and success.

Like so many girls, I learned early that being “like a girl” was an insult. That power, intelligence, and value were masculine traits. That being accommodating, nurturing, or emotional meant you were weak.

And so, I leaned into my mind over my body. I tried to think my way into power. I dismissed traditionally “feminine” things—cooking, sewing, homemaking—as unimportant. I held my belly in, tried to take up less space, believed that thin was better, smaller was better, quieter was better.

I internalized a system designed to erase me.

But now, at almost 50, I see my mom differently. I see women differently.

I see our bodies, our softness, our strength.
I see the absolute magic of hips that create and carry life.
I see the power of bellies that expand, hold, nourish.
I see the wisdom of hands that cook, create, and care.
I see the fire of voices that are no longer afraid to take up space.

I see the sacred in what I once dismissed.

My mom, without fanfare, embodies all of this.

She is creative. She is a maker—of clothes, food, art, businesses, dreams.
She is resilient. She has reinvented herself in her 60s and 70s, taking up golf, pottery, painting, and still working because she loves it.
She is brave. She embraced me fully when I came out. She embraced my wife. She embraced Leo’s pronouns without resistance.
She is love in action. She has driven five hours for a friend in crisis, flown across the country countless times for her kids, spent her own money bringing joy to others.

She has shown me that the world doesn’t need us to be smaller, quieter, or less.

It needs us to be whole.

This morning, during yoga, as I stretched and moved, I thought about my mom—and I thought about my own journey.

The journey of learning to love my belly—this part of me that I was taught to shrink, to flatten, to wish away.
The journey of reclaiming my right to take up space.
The journey of letting go of the lie that my softness makes me weak.

And I thought about my kid—my child who is non-binary, expansive, whole.

Leo doesn’t carry the same rigid ideas of gender that I grew up with. They are free in ways I am still learning to be.

And that gives me hope.

Because the world my mom grew up in is not the world she raised me in.
And the world I grew up in is not the world I am raising Leo in.

We are changing. We are unlearning. We are reclaiming.

As I move through this life—learning to love my body, my belly, my femininity, my full humanity—my mom is leading the way.

She is showing me that love is presence.
That kindness is action.
That showing up for people is what matters most.

I regret all the years I didn’t see her fully. But I am so grateful for the time we have now.

Happy 78th birthday, Mom.
You are my hero. You are my magic.
I love you more than anything.