My mother’s​ love will always feel greater in scope and more tangible than anything spiritual that I have ever experienced. Despite being utterly emotionally devastated by events that happened during my childhood, she still fought for connection to me. We grew apart during the course of my descent into addiction and massive depression. We wouldn’t talk for weeks on end, and when we did, it was contentious. There were years of terrible pain in both our lives.

When I hit bottom, Ma took me in. I was an addict, a thief, a felon, and a money burning college dropout. (Not to mention much more of a general jerk and a ne’er-do-well than I am today) She let me take care of her horses and her little plot in exchange for a room, rent free. She helped me get a job as a laborer at a local farm. She strongly encouraged me to pursue my passions so I wouldn’t end up miserable all over again.

Now, almost six years later, our home has become a haven for my gaggle of friends, who have always been welcome no matter who they are. We’re working together to create a little slice of paradise with our homestead.

Ma has been a driving force in my life. Sometimes for good, sometimes for ill. Through it all though, I have never had to doubt whether or not she loved me. For me, Love is a constant, sometimes buried beneath the mire and the mess of life. Sometimes a truly amazing person, like Ma, reminds you how bright and warm that obfuscated effervescence truly is.

It’s a given that Ma is the reason I’m alive, but few mothers achieve this feat twice with one child.

To encapsulate what I’m talking about with a specific instance: I recently told, or tried to tell Ma, about my need to get comfortable enough to be more public with my queerness and transvestism. We were in the car, on our way home from a trip to the mechanic we know in the more rural part of the county. We always stop at this lonely ice cream joint, appropriately named “Mom’s”, on the return trip.  We’re slurping our American sized black & white shakes when I awkwardly started to say how I’m not exactly swimming in the mainstream. She stopped me short and reassured me her signature coarse fashion. “Bloss,” she calls me Blossom, “you’re my kid, my only kid, you couldn’t be anything that would change my love for you. Go ahead for your queer self. Don’t worry about me.”


Submitted by Anonymous.

To submit your own story or artwork, visit the I Am Loved Project.

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