Blog – Lessons from a Dead MoM

Lesson 13: Beautiful

Steam fogged the mirror as I gazed into the hazy image of my 20-year-old body.

The curves of my body more accentuated than when I was younger. The skin on my face more scarred with hormonal acne exchanged for a non-existent period and no pregnancy scares. The three tattoos on my body permanently mark the memories of the people who showed me everlasting love, whether they are alive or past. My hair cut short like my mother’s in her twenties. Despite the changes to my body, I still see the long, curly-haired girl who used to dance at her grandparents’ house.

She has gone through some deep, serious shit, but she looks at peace now.

I haven’t studied my body in a long time.

The excuse I use for this lack of self awareness is the fast pace of life. The fast wind of the day-to-day and shitty situation after shitty situation that constantly sweeps my attention away from my physical being (perhaps aside from exercise, skin care, or my outfits).

Internally, I know that I have grown and changed emotionally and intellectually. However, just yesterday, I realized the physical growth I have undergone beyond my weight or height. I finally studied my adult body as an artist would study a model, giving the woman in the mirror the time and attention needed to fully appreciate the depth of my physical being and growth.

I felt beautiful.

I did not hear the anxious judgment of my younger self chanting my need to starve to get rid of weight around my thights and stomach. I did not feel the pain of cystic acne boring into my cheeks and chin.

I felt beautiful in my own eyes.

Looking into the pair of hazel eyes starring back at me in the mirror, I realized that past lovers may understood my twenty-year-old body before I fully did. The slow, intentional exploration of hands and mouth probably mapped the shape of my own body before I even realized how much I have grown. I felt sad.

How could I have been so disconnected from myself? I wondered if I neglected the little girl in me who was excited to see what I would look like when I matured. The same little girl who read magazines and watch fashion shows in hopes of growing up to look as pretty as one of the models.

For someone who thinks so much all the time, I don’t know why I never stopped to admire my body for her adult changes.

In the middle of these thoughts, I stopped to open the box of my mother’s perfumes. Taking in their scents of oud and rose, I was teleported to brisk fall mornings of her kissing my hand to leave a lipstick mark before she left for work; she wanted to give us a reminder of her before she left. The smell of her perfume a warm embrace as she knelt before me, pearls glistenining in the early morning light.

I travel back to present day in the opening of my eyes. And there she is before me: my twenty-year-old self starring right back at me. In her, I see my mom. Like the sweet scent of her perfume, my similar visage serves as a comforting reminder of her.

So here’s the lesson: Admire all of your changes. Admire your physical beauty as well as your mental growth. Both are what make you a person and a product of a history of love. You have experienced a lot of life, even if you are only 20. Your body marks that passing of time too; thank it for serving you well and for being a vessel of your tender-hearted soul.

Lesson 12: Change

Life is a series of deaths and rebirths.

Walking to my NIH building on hot July days equated to falling in love with you over the phone. As Cigarettes After Sex played in my ears, I could also hear the sound of your voice saying “I love you.”

But, two years passed. Two years of good memories and change. I grew into a different person; I was no longer the long-haired, 18-year-old you initially fell in love with.

I cut my hair. I learned more about myself. I faced challenges. I learned more about you: your allergy to fish, your desire to get a PhD, and your way of putting your tongue between your lips right before you say something.

We faced challenges together. In the end, I had to leave.

Somethings cannot be compromised on, especially when change is not occuring and the relationship is draining to both parties.

I looked out for myself.

You were a beautiful chapter in my life, but it has come to a close.

I moved into my new apartment. I got a dog. I have my own space to discover my identity. I found peace.

I lost some people along the way, but with rebirth comes death. I do not regretanything.

In the serenity of my mornings of solitude and salted caramel coffee, I think a lot about my mom and grandmom. I see their kindness in the eyes of my pets. I smell their sweet perfumes in the my coffee. I feel their warmth in the rays of light that beam through my living room windows. I hope they are keeping each other company.

I think about how I am of them and yet my own individual. I am influenced by their sense of service, love, and curiosity. My tattoos commemorate their impact to my life.

So, as I get ready every morning, I do not feel alone or sad about the changes in my life. Instead, I feel free. I have autonomy over my actions, empowered by the experiences of self-priority and prior and present love. The love I have for my friends and family, for my independence, and for my future self keeps me warm in the cold of these fall days.

I feel grateful for all of my experiences; even my losses, because it means that I loved. It means that despite all of my hardships, I never let them harden and close my heart to love. I gave love, and for that, I am truley grateful.

So, here is the lesson: Changes in life are proof of your humanity. You are constantly evolving with every new experience. Sometimes, things in your life have to leave because they are no longer the best thing for you. That is good. It is proof that you are growing. If you feel scared to make a difficult decision, ask yourself what would be best for your future self and protect the heart of your past self.

Lesson 11: Stuck

I almost took my own life last week.

I have been trying to ascertain how to talk about this to my family and friends. Some, I told straight-up. Others just know I was in the hospital and needed some time to recover after. For someone who is so adamant about advocating for mental health rights and resources, I find it funnily ironic that I don’t know how to deal with this issue myself.

Moreover, I am unsure of how to write about this on my blog.

I use this platform to share my experiences and thoughts as an exercise in processing them myself and sharing my feelings in hopes that others feel less alone.

So, last night, I realized that maybe not knowing how to talk about suicide on this platform was kind of ok. It’s ok to not know how to deal with something. I hope that others can relate.

I feel like many therapist, doctors, friends, family members, and mental health resources push some kind of “oh! come and talk and we will figure it out!” which is total ok and great. But perhaps it is equally as ok to simply not know and take your time.

Talking to friends and family, I am able to at least digest the situation a little bit. I feel uncomfortable with the fact that I cannot digest it faster or more efficiently. However, I am learning to be ok with that.

When my intake coordinator at the emergency room asked me how long I have been dealing with suicidal thoughts, I answered back, “since I was 5,” which is something I never told anyone before.

Even though it was a scary experience, it is helping me learn more about myself. I feel like I unlocked parts of me that I hid deep-down inside my heart.

Perhaps it was coming to the brink of a real, true end that forced my heart to develop cracks of light in its darkest crevasses.

I know I will struggle with these thoughts my whole life. I don’t know why my mind attacks itself like this, but I am doing many things to learn why.

So here’s the lesson: You don’t always have to know what to do or think or feel. Allow yourself the grace to exist in states of uncertainty. You don’t need to have all of the answers all of the time. You are constantly going to be learning, growing, and changing, and with that comes times of uncomfortability in silence. Embrace the uncomfortability and take your time. Your life is your own; you do not owe anyone any answers.

Lesson 10: Love

“Oh, shit! Guys, look over there!” I pointed to the top of a hill about half a mile away from our Yellowstone campsite. Standing in the golden light of an early summer setting sun, two figures stoop atop a hill, oblivious to my observance of their love. One figure knelt in front of the other. They were getting engaged to the silent hum of birds and the subtle chill of the Yellowstone air. Although they were observed, they must have felt totally alone and at peace. A bubble of just the two of them; a silent moment only they shared in a small corner of a big, loud world.

A few weeks after my mom passed away, my dad, sister, and I watched my parent’s wedding video. Gathered in the small living room of the house my dad worked so hard to provide for me and my sister after rebuilding his finances from divorce, the pearly glow of a glimer of a love story shone as a reminder of what was and what could have been.

Dancing just the two of them as their families and friends watched, my mom and dad starred into each others eyes with love I had not seen since I was three or four years old. They embraced each other as if they knew that was their person. Nothing would come between them in that tight embrace.

Laughing and dancing, they then looked into the camera with the purest of smiles. Smiles unburdened by pain or separation. They were so utterly in love, and you could tell that just by looking at them.

Family and friends danced to early 2000’s music in their heels and ties, my mom’s professional-actor brother and some of his friends performed an skit and song, and my dad’s brother gave a speech in Farsi so that he could bridge the gap between my dad’s Irish-German family and my mother’s Persian family. The glowing celebration of unison shone bright in my dad’s living room that night.

I started dating my boyfriend the summer after high school. Walking to my NIH internships, I would listen to “Sweet” by Cigarettes After Sex as we texted about our plans for the day, how we slept the past night, or anything random we wanted to bring up. I hadn’t told him I loved him yet, but I felt this internal, peaceful and yet thrilling warmth in my heart.

Two years into our relationship, I still feel that same warmth. Now, I know it is love. I just never felt anything like it before.

Before him, I did not know my favorite color would become the deep brown of his eyes or that my favorite smile would become and always be his.

A week into dating, I asked him to come with me to see my mom’s apartment one last time before I sold it. (Thinking back on it, that sounds like a crazy thing to ask so soon into a relationship.) He held me as I cried sitting in the living room in which my mom’s death bed was; her wheelchair in the corner illuminated by the pale moon light that we used to have deep conversations in.

He showed me what a patient, kind, deep love felt like. Despite what happened when I was 13, he is my first and only boyfriend I ever had. He is my best friend and a huge source of light in my life.

But, love is more than romantic. Love can be seen in the nights my sister and I would stay up singing songs in our bunkbeds. Love can be seen in the coffee-shop laughs my friends and I share. Love can be seen in the way my cat Blu gives me the top of her head whenever I purse my lips to make a kiss sound.

Love is a reminder from God you are human. Love can build and break, heal and hurt, be loud or soft. No matter what, it is always with you.

So here’s the lesson: You are never alone or without love. No matter what you think, how you feel, or where you have been, love is always with you. If you ever feel that you cannot feel it, learn to channel it.

Call up a friend randomly. Go outside in a storm and dance alone in the rain. Hug your family. Shout song lyrics with your friends as you drive down the highway. Write reminders of the love you experienced in your notes app. Learn to remember and cherish it. Everyone desires to feel the warmth of love; learn it yourself and then go spread it. It’s your job as a human to share human experiences.

Lesson 9: Sex

“I swear to god, if we shower together, my dick will end up inside of you.”

I was freshly 13 years old and just got my first boyfriend. Two days into our relationship, he tells me he loves me and keeps asking for sex and nudes.

I probably still wore a fucking training bra and didn’t even know what a dick looked like. He kept asking and begging for sex. He was older than me. We hadn’t even held hands or kissed.

I thought this was normal. I felt weird the entire time, but thought that maybe it was because I wasn’t used to being in a relationship. So, I kept denying the sex he was asking for, but stayed.

A few days later, my mom saw me texting. She asked who it was and I told her it was him, the neighborhood boy we knew for so long. I didn’t tell her he was my boyfriend; I knew that would get me in trouble. She did not want me dating.

She took my phone. She read the text of him asking and me denying. Instead of blaming him, she blamed me.

“WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO THIS?” she scolded at me in public. She insisted we end our family outing to go back to the car to go home. “Now sit in the back of the car like the dog you are.”

Yeah, she actually said that. And I remember it crystal-clear 7 years later.

She hit and punched me, blamed me, and claimed she had no trust in me. She took away my phone, laptop, and all other technology. I could not listen to music nor watch TV. I could not be in a room alone. She told the church pastors who came to confront me about the need to “obey your parents rules so that you do not end up in these situations” and the importance of “being modest” and “not sexualizing yourself”. She told eveyone. I had no dignity anymore.

I was only fucking 13. I did not sexualize myself. I was not trying to provoke any sexualization.

I felt an immense amount of shame.

For the next 5 years, I forbade myself from finding anyone attractive. I tried and prayed that I would never marry, have children, or find anyone ever attractive.

It wasn’t until my mom died that felt safe to I open my heart and mind to the possibility of my own sexuality.

Later, I got a boyfriend. He did not pressure me. He is my first boyfriend because real boyfriends only uplift you. They don’t love bomb and pressure. I came out as bisexual during our relationship; he did not shame me for it.

Two years into our relationship, I started taking Lexapro. This fuckass drug helps me to not kill myself, but also kills my sex drive. I can’t finish, I don’t even crave sex most of the time, and I feel so bad that I cannot provide that aspect of the relationship anymore. At least, not to the degree it used to be before I started these meds.

Obviously, my boyfriend and I talked about it and he is supportive of everything I need and think. It just absolutely fucking sucks that I went from shutting down and being shamed for my sexuality, to finally exploring it, then to getting it yet again taken away from me.

If I had a child, I would not shame them for a natural thing. Would you shame the flower for blooming? Would you shame the ocean for creating waves? Would you shame the cloud for raining? No. So, I fucking hate my mom for doing what she did.

She cost me so much time. She cost me my happiness and my freedom. Frankly, she is probably a huge reason I am even on Lexapro right now.

I am only 20. I have so much life ahead of me. I can take my time and figure out my own sexuality and its balance with other aspects of my life. That is ok and normal to re-evaluate at all stages of life.

I just wish I could have been raised without so much shame around sex. Maybe then I would not try to shut out my feelings about it all the time. I am working on it now, but I still have the right to be mad about how things turned out.

So here’s the lesson: Don’t shame someone for their OWN fucking sexuality. It is literally just that: THEIR OWN. Who are you to shame or blame someone for it? If you have kids or are in a position of mentorship or power, nurture individual self-exploration. Change the rhetoric on sexual health and awareness by allowing people to feel free to explore without judgement. Do not be the one to shut someone down for years. Most importantly, be kind to yourself about this too. Allow yourself to heal and be healthy and free from shame.

Lesson 8: Slow Down

Society is fucking obsessed with constantly achieveing shit. The competition to outshine each other, get the job, get the scholarship, get the girl is deafening. The constant yelling is draining.

My mom prided herself on transforming from a scared 9-year-old Iranian refugee who was held at knife-point at the elementary school bus stop to an eloquent, strong, feminist, U.S. diplomat who refused to take any shit from anyone. Yeah, that’s a fucking awesome and inspiring story. And yet, the internalized, perhaps self-inflicted expectation to live up to something so extraordinary scares me; to shine just as or even brighter than she did.

“The next generation must stand on the shoulders of the former,” explained my mom at least once a week. “This is how each generation becomes stronger and achieves more than the older one.” She pushed me and my sister to stand out and dream big.

That’s a great and powerful lesson to teach your child, but it is equally as important to teach them to rest. You must appreciate the stillness to have the energy to fight for those dreams. She probably tried to teach me this, but her own internal confliction between these two lessons made it so that I prioritized the hustle over anything else.

Project after internship after podcast, I pushed myself to accomplish my dream of being a great force of change for the cancer and scientific community. I never took a break. If I did, I felt guilty.

“What gives me the right to seemingly stop fighting for this community? They never get a break from their cancer, so why should I stop researching and advocating for them?”

I have had an internship every summer since my junior year of high school. This is the first summer where I have not had an internship. I feel paranoid that I will be set back or people will view me as lazy or incapable of achieving.

So, I took three UVA summer courses to get ahead of the game. I overload my schedule with tutoring and pet sitting clients. I subconsciously fill my schedule to ensure I am not taking any breaks. I cannot sit still or else I feel like a failure for not doing something, making change, or making money.

Frankly, I think this is the raw immigrant mindset speaking through me. The anxiety I have about motion and money literally sounds like it is coming directly from my immigrant, raised-poor mother who pushed herself so hard and underwent so much hardship that she died from cancer. This is a pattern I have to break.

Having some sense of responsibility and need to accomplish is healthy. It is what tells you to apply for that position you really want or to try out for that one cool science club. It helps you get where you want to be. However, too much can literally drain you. Too much of this stress makes it impossible to sit still and enjoy the silence of a breezy, calm Saturday morning.

I felt and still feel the need to make my mom proud, yes. But at the same time, I do not want to literally work myself to death. The full life with a job, family, and financial security I dreamed of since I was little can be achieved in so many different ways.

The life I crave so deeply will become reality if I make strides towards it. However, these strides are more than spending hours a day on Indeed or Handshake; they are more than working multiple jobs to pay and save for things; they are more than building connections on LinkedIn. You must work on yourself at the core: your mind and your heart. Pay attention to your feelings, as cliche as it sounds. How you feel about something is ultimately your internal compass which will help you construct your dream life; you just have to tune and follow it. So, check in with yourself and do not disregard or push down your emotions.

Prioritize your inner voice over that of society, family, and social media. Your life should be dictated and created by you.

I am working on sitting in and enjoying the silence I have whenever I can. Instead of filling my schedule so that I have no time to hear my own thoughts, I purposefully block of time to stay at home and paint or just sit in a coffee shop to write a blog post about literally whatever I want. Through these and similar methods, I become more grounded in my person and thoughts. I feel more at peace with myself and do not feel ashamed for taking time to relax. I can check-in with myself emotionally, physically, and mentally to ensure I am doing well and see if I need to make any changes to become even more at peace.

So here’s the lesson: You should never feel guilty for taking time for yourself. You are a human, and you are not built to work all the time. You need to set aside some time everyday to check in with yourself. Through this practice, you build your intuition and become a more grounded person. Do not let anything take away from your peace; life is stressful as is. Most importantly, if you need help with inner peace or breaking away from this child-of-an-immigrant or similar mentality, talk to someone and be intentional about working on breaking this pattern. Believe in yourself and understand that your path is just that: your own. Live life on your own time and terms. Slow down and sit with your feelings to understand what you need.

Lesson 7: Permission

The last Christmas I spent with my mom, I got a keychain of a cat holding up two middle-fingers with the lettering “I do what I want.”

“Haha, that’s perfect for you,” my mom exclaimed, still fading into the cracks of our black leather couch that would become her death bed. She held the coin-sized pendant in her palm; proof that her lesson of individuality and freedom will outlast her physical presence.

Before her death, I felt the need to please my mom. This is probably the fate of every eldest daughter and child of an immigrant. What I wore, how I spoke, and my plans for the future were carefully planned to make my mom proud. Her opinion mattered more than my own.

After her death, I no longer monitored her mood to see if my outfit was ok to wear to school or if she thought my writing was good enough for an application essay. The only standards I had to live up to were my own. Sure, her voice was always in the back of my mind, but I had to work to release my emotions from that grip. She should be proud of her daughter no matter what. Afterall, I would be proud of my daughter no matter what.

I wore what I wanted. I wear no bra sometimes and I wear heels just because. I wear short shorts and long skirts. I wear my mom’s features but decorate them as my own.

I taught myself how to apply make up, using the techniques she taught me from her days as a Nordstrom make up artist. I got a third ear piercing to match hers. Then, I got a fourth and a fifth, releasing myself from her expectations of me.

I allowed myself to explore my sexuality, something I felt ashamed of before. I released myself from the memories of yelling and hitting that followed her discovery of my involvement with a neighborhood boy when I was 13. Five years later, I developed feelings again for someone in my English class. Sadly, it took five years and death to feel brave enough to heal from the shame. But now, that same boy from my English class is still with me and I discovered my bisexuality. I am free from shame.

I love myself enough to set my own standards. I provide for myself so that I do not rely on anyone for anything. This freedom is a blessing that I know not everyone has. I worked hard for it. Anything or anyone that takes away from my happiness and peace is unwelcomed and left behind. I am free from shame and negativity.

I grant myself permission to fail. Nothing is a clean and clear path. Shit gets hard. Shit gets depressing. Shit gets into your head and fills it with doubt. Embrace it, understand it, and let is pass. It does not control you. It is an aspect of life, but your life does not have to revolve around it. You can go through hard shit and come out on the other side. No feeling is permanent. This too shall pass. I am free from shame and guilt.

I stopped limiting myself to be “skinny” and I stopped doing crunches at 3 a.m. I have a healthy body that can run, lift, and exist without self-criticism. I ignore what others say or what social media says. I saw a young mother blossom into a 50-year-old woman with the calves of a ballerina and wither into skin and bone and tumor. I saw my grandmother forget who I am, even after years of iced-Dr. Pepper-and-badminton afternoons on the farm. I saw my great-grandmother cook the food of our Shirazi ancestors, even despite her aching hands and knees. Who the fuck is anyone to tell me what a beautiful woman looks like? Beauty is within everyone as it is within me. I am free from shame and expectations.

I make my own money. I have my own education. I have my own family and friends. I control what enters and exists my life. I own my past and control my future. My mom transformed from a refugee to a ballerina to a U.S. diplomat. She controlled her destiny. As her daughter, I have the responsibility and freedom to do the same. She will be proud of me for being me.

I am my own person. I do not belong to anyone.

I am free.

So here’s the lesson: You are the sole-proprietor of your life. You are the only one who controls your future. Sure, shit will happen and it will be tough. Things may not go as planned. Financial status, family expectations, and politics have an extraordinary impact on everything. However, generally-speaking, the future you want depends on your own permission only. Release yourself from shame, societal standards, and fear. Fight for your future self. Do what makes you happy and proud, not what other people would be happy and proud of. The permission is on the tip of your tongue, you just have to speak it aloud to have it be granted.

Lesson 6: Reminiscence

As a kid, I would complain to my mom when I was bored. Asking if we could do something or watch something on the TV, she would without fail tell me to embrace being bored. She told me to cherish the silence and peace now because there would be times in which you would yearn for it. As a kid, I would roll my eyes at that.

Growing up, I would witness both my mom and my dad separately live in moments of peace and solitude. Looking from the front screen door, I found my mom on the poarch with a cup of coffee gazing out into the field of grass glistening with the morning dew. In my dad’s apartment, I would find him standing by the window, looking out into the street. Both sets of eyes had a distant look to them, as if they were reliving moments from the past.

Looking at them, I felt scared and excited to grow up. I was excited to have things to remember, whether fondly or not. I was excited to wake up one morning and quitely share moments with my past and present self.

I imagined my mom reliving her days at The Washington Ballet studio, practicing for Swan Lake. Or perhaps she was remembering her 8-year-old self competing with her Persian cousins to see how many sugar cubes they could each dissolve in their cups of dark, cardamom tea. Maybe she was remembering how she used to count coins from her purse to see if she could afford beans and rice for dinner as she worked her way through college.

My dad’s look was deeper, almost sadder. I wondered if he missed the peace of his rural childhood home or his adventures SCUBA diving as a young marine in his early 20’s. Most of all, I felt a deep saddness that my sister and I couldn’t spend more time with him then. I imagine he felt the same, which made me more sad.

In both the eyes of my mom and my dad, I read the bittersweet silence of nostalgia. Even though they were only in their 40’s, they had so many memories they could recall, happy and sad. Though they lead different lives, they still shared time together. They shared homes, emotions, and adventures. They were engaged, were married, and had children. Then it changed. Now, they just shared children. I wondered if they would gaze out windows thinking of each other sometimes; not to feel a yearning, but more of a somber gratefulness that they crossed paths at some point in their lives.

Even though there was pain, there must have also been beauty in those shared experiences. Despite the undertone of saddness, having had, shared, and created love must have contributed to a full life.

Perhaps the best gift one could be given is a life worth quietly remembering.

Knowing this all, I still felt excited to grow up; excited to experience a full life of both beautiful and painful times. I was excited to see how I would change as a person and how life would mold me into the best version of myself.

Barely 20 years old, I find myself reliving past experiences. I recall the soft breeze the brushed my face as I admired the towering date trees on the drive to my new house from the King Khalid International Airport in Riyadh. I recall the sound of cheers as I won my school spelling bee, beaming brightly knowing how much I worked to win it. I recall the welcoming smell of herbs trailing from the kitchen as my mom made Ghormeh Sabzi to celebrate the end of a long week. I recall the joyful, nervous, electric feeling of accidentally bumping into my now-boyfriend on our first date, and how his smile became my favorite.

When I catch myself in these moments of innocent rememberance, I realize that I have already accomplished a great goal I set for myself all those years ago: I have lived a life worthy of reminiscence. (And I shall continue to do so.) Yes, some memories are sad and heavy, but many are also joyous and exciting. They remind me of how much I have grown so far, and how I will continue to do so.

Here’s the lesson: embrace every moment in life, even the hard ones. Embrace the past and future change you will experience. Be excited and grateful for your journey. Everyone’s is different, and that is what makes life so uniquely beautiful. Most of all, embrace the silence sometimes. Let it warmly envelop you as it give you the space to catch your breath in the fast-pace normality of modern life. Be grateful for the peaceful pockets of time and be proud of yourself for how far you have come already.

Lesson 5: Embracing Insecurity

Growing up, I was ashamed of many aspects of my appearance: the thick, black hair on my arms and legs, the crookedness of my top teeth, and the way my mom always insisted I dress with a polo to public school. Relentlessly, I compared myself to those around me.

“Why can’t I look like them?”, I thought. I wanted to fit in.

One day, I insisted my mom teach me how to shave my legs before school. I was 12. I was so tired of people calling me names and looking at me in a disgusted manner. My mom refused many times, then eventually taught me. I went to school that day so proud to fit in with the girls who had blonde hair on their legs that gave the appearance of no hair.

That day, I didn’t get called any names and I wasn’t looked at differently. At least not about my legs. I still never smiled with my teeth for pictures. I still wore long-sleeved shirts, as my mom didn’t allow me to shave my arms.

I would tell my mom about my insecurities. (I never told her about the name-calling or looks, because I knew she would make a fuss about it at school. My goal was to fit in; not to be the kid who has their mom deal with their problems loudly and publically.) She did what many people’s moms did: tell me I was perfect just the way I am.

She would tell me that she also had black arm and leg hair, to which I would reply that it wasn’t the same because her skin was darker so it didn’t show up with as much contrast on her as it did me. She would share about how she, like many Persians, had a large nose but she always refused to get a nose job when so many of her friends did. Before she told me about her nose, I never realized that someone could think it wasn’t beautiful.

“See,” she said, “most of the time, people are too absorbed in their own lives and insecurities to pay yours any mind. Besides, why should we humans be able to dictate the value and beauty of God’s creations?”

At the time, I disregarded this. After all, people around me were the ones that made me insecure. I was angry at them, and my hatred blinded me from internalizing what my mom said.

When my mom died, I immediately started shaving my arms. I thought it would make me more attractive and less different. Then, when I got a boyfriend, I was scared that he would see my body and find me disgusting. He didn’t. I don’t know why I thought he would think that.

Again, my own insecurities and anxieties of my own body, the one God gifted to me, blinded me from accepting the love that surrounded me.

However, when I “fixed” my body and my teeth, I grew more confident in myself. I started smiling with my teeth for pictures and wearing short sleeves. I started to worry less about what people thought of me and began living life outside of my head.

Admittedly, I still shave my arms and legs. I still worry about what people think of my appearance. The names people called me still sometimes ring in my head in the mornings when I am getting dressed. I sometimes still try to read people’s minds by the looks they give me when they see me, trying to assess if they find me disgusting. I still have growth to do in accepting myself.

However, I am overall more self-confident about my appearance, at least more than I used to be. I realized that if my mom isn’t here to tell me I am beautiful when I share about my insecurities, I must do it myself. My mom was the most beautiful person I knew. Despite that, she had insecurities but instead of “fixing them”, grew more confident in herself. She wasn’t going to change for anyone, so why, as her daughter and the genetic product of her, should I?

“Do you mock the butterfly for looking different from another?” she would say to a younger me. “No, you find both beautiful. God made you perfectly in His image. Embrace the gifts he gave to you, Catherine.”

I desire to embrace myself truly to also embrace her. I am her daughter; I don’t want to change to be anyone else.

I know I live inside of my head a lot. I overthink and overthink and overthink. When I become aware of how much I do live in my head, I make an effort to look outwards.

As I write this now, I look around in the coffee shop, admiring the gathering of friends in one corner and the studious medical student in the other. In both parties, I see beauty. Unique lives that have joined in one place just for a moment in time, understandably absorbed in their own lives. They don’t know what I am writing about now or the insecurities in my head. They simply are beautifully human.

My mom was beautifully human and was able to embrace that. I will embrace my own beauty just like she did.

Here is the lesson: if you being to feel insecure about yourself, look outwards. Observe the peaceful hum of the lives of those around you passing by and appreciate the ability to be able to bear witness to it. Everyone has insecurities and might not realize how beautiful they look in the eyes of others. You are who and where you are meant to be. Embrace it.

Lesson 4: How to Not Forget

Last year, my mom visited me in a dream. Everyone who lost someone told me this would happen. I waited for her every night. Finally, she arrived.

She looked different. She was younger, healthier, and happier. She looked full of life, not drained by the powerful pain meds from the last time I saw her. She wore this black athletic jacket and had her hair pulled into a bun by chopsticks from the kitchen, something she would often do before she lost her hair to chemo. She stood in our old dining room in our town house we rented in Clermont for about 7 years. I stood across from her.

“I’m at peace now” she told me with a slight smile on her face. “I’m ok.”

I just stood there in the dining room, unable to move. I just stared at her. Eventually, I smiled back.

She smiled back, closed her eyes, and nodded at me. Then my alarm went off.

I woke up to my 6:30 alarm to get ready for my 8:00 physics lecture. I turned off my alarm, rolled towards the wall, and cried. I cried not because I was sad, but because I was relieved. She was resting in our house all along.

I vividly remember this dream to this day. She only visited me once, but I think she wanted to let me (and therefore my dad and sister) know she was ok and that we didn’t have to worry about her. Before she died, she always told me she would be with me. I finally understood what that meant.

A lot of time passed since then. A lot of change occured. I think about her often, but it’s less so now. Frankly, I am starting to forget things about her; the sound of her voice, the warmth of her hug, the smell of her perfume are all fading inspite of my efforts to remember them.

But she said she would always be with me.

I journal about her, talk about her, and uncovered her perfumes. As I smell her Tom Ford fragrance, I transform into my 7-year-old self hugging her good-bye as she goes to work. When I was very young, she used to kiss my hand to leave a mark of lipstick so that we wouldn’t miss her too much. Through tears, I still see a faint light red mark.

I open my phone to find pictures of her at different times in her life: her as a kid who just moved to the U.S., her senior portrait in her high school yearbook, her getting married to my dad, her holding my sister as a baby, and finally her laying on the couch in early January with a hat to hide the bumps she was afraid to see. Some say I look like her in some ways. If I squit my eyes in the mirror, the tears blend the image to show her.

Her friends still share stories and pictures of her with me. Her fingerprint stone still lives relentlessly in my pocket. The smell of freshly-ground coffee beans still ring with her laughter on a rising-sun Sunday. The breeze of the salty seaside still plays with my hair as if she is braiding it. Suddenly yet constantly, she appears to me.

Here’s the lesson: Perhaps the key to not forgetting is to not seek ways to remember. Perhaps, instead, it is to be open of mind, heart, and eyes to receieve reminders as they come. Do not be frustrated when reminders do not appear when you want or need them to; they will find you when it is right.

Lesson 3: Dealing with Anger

Usually I talk about my mom’s cancer in application essays and interviews to show how I was always motivated to go into medicine. The sentence, “I was nine years old when my single-mom was given six months to live” is literally engrained into me to the point where when I reincarnate into the next life, they will likely be my first words. But what isn’t explicitly told when I reiterate this story is my profound fucking anger at the world.

I did everything I was supposed to do: trust God has a plan, help drive my mom to appointments, cook her meals, and take care of all of my other shit. She was an exemplary cancer patient too; she was still strong for eight years of her diagnosis. She drove herself to chemo, still worked a hard but rewarding policy job, and was a great mother. So why the fuck did she fucking die?

My senior year of high school was absolute fucking hell for my family. At the beginning of the school year, my mom started to have some pain in her hips and lower back; her cough came back too. Turns out, the cancer spread from her lungs back into her brain and now into her spine, femur, skull, and brain. Imagine a 17 year old rolling her mom on her wheelchair into the oncologists office just to hear that there were no more treatment options. I was so fucking angry at the doctors and scientists for not doing something before it got this bad or for finding another possibility.

Instead of wallowing in my own anger and saddness, I tended to my mom. She was the one going through all of this, after all. I wanted to help her.

It reached the point where my mom was confined to the couch, laying on one side of her body. She couldn’t walk to the bathroom. She couldn’t walk to the kitchen. She had a table next to her which had her phone, oxycontin and oxycodone, Ensure with a straw in it, water with a straw in it, hemp salve for pain, and a jar to pee in.

Obviously, I still was in high school, so I had to go to class. I would go to school in the morning, do all of my homework there, and come immediately home. I opened the door to find my mom obviously in the same position I left her in in the morning. I would go straight to her, help her pee, give her fluids, rub her back, and massage her legs. The lumps on her skull were getting bigger and her hair was gone.

She was becoming just skin and bones and cancer.

I would stay with her until about 9 pm when my sister would take the first night-shift. This meant that she slept on a chair next to my mom in case she needed anything. My mom was in so much pain that this usually meant the sister in the chair would never sleep. At about 2 am, I would take over so Claire could sleep in her bed.

I was angry that I had to go to school and act like I wasn’t sleep-deprived or scared out of my fucking mind everyday. I was scared that if someone found out about what was happening at home, they would call CPS or someone to take me away from my mom. I also didn’t want people to pity me; I didn’t want to see how they looked at me differently. So, I just did my routine everyday. My grades never slipped, I got into a great engineering program at a great university, and an internship at the NIH. “Fuck you,” I thought to the world.

My mom broke her femur due to her brittle bones, so I took her to the ER and stayed with her until 4 am. She was admitted into surgery, and I went to school three hours later that same morning.

To make a long story short, she was shuffled from floor to floor in the hospital, entered hospice, and died one cold, winter morning.

At the hospital, my sister and I washed her cold, frail body before they moved her to the funeral home. I decided to bury her with the same wooden cross she slept with every night. I handed the funeral home the dress she picked out six months prior to be buried in. “Fuck you, world.”

I went back to school three days after she died. I told my teachers and friends. I got baskets and cards from them expressing their sympathy. It was nice to know that they were there for me.

A school counselor never reached out to me, but I guess I got lost into the cracks of their system. A pretty fucking big crack that must have been. “Fuck you, world.”

Later, I started my first year at university where no one knew my mom died. It was a fresh slate. I guess it was nice because no one looked at me like an injured lamb anymore. However, I was frustrated that I had to do everything for school, life, and whatnot while dealing with the immense grief in my heart. I was angry that I had to transition and act normal even though my mom just died.

So I told people about my mom. She gave me advice about everything throughout my life, and I found ways to incorporate those into conversations with my friends and family. I reached out to get accomodations for what I needed in school. Most importantly, I did things that I felt honored the memory of my mom: I rolled the car windows and felt the wind through my hair, I danced to her favorite songs in my room, and I shared my memories of her with people. I felt that my anger was going away.

Obviously, it doesn’t take death to feel anger. Even small or large amounts of anger can boil into larger amounts if they are not dealt with. If I didn’t find methods of expressing myself, I think I would have taken my anger out on other people, which is just not right. No one is at fault for my mom’s death. It’s just what God made her story to be, and we did our best.

So here’s the big take away: Whenever you feel anger (or any emotion), acknowledge the feeling and why you have it. Find ways to honor yourself and your emotions. After all, it is what makes us human. Reach out when you need support. Don’t let things harden your heart. Feel deeply to live fully.

Lesson 2: Have Grit

My mom never wanted me to go to medical school. Having spent an obviously massive amount of time in hospitals, she felt that my going to medical school and working in a hospital would have a negative impact on my psyche. She didn’t want me to be surrounded by “sick people” all of the time. I didn’t see it that way, but I wasn’t about to argue with my cancer-patient mom who was also extremely Middle Eastern, though she liked to think she was more Americanized. (Those of you who grew up with an especially strict parent will understand.)

So, to please her, I said, “Ok, I will just go into research.” Well, I tried that. I absolutely loved the labs I worked at and who I worked with, but felt that I was missing out on interacting with real people. (Although, of course, postdocs and PIs are real people.) I wanted to see the impact of my work more directly. I wanted to see directly how I was benefiting my community.

The fall after my big cancer research internship, I started my degree program for my B.S. in biomedical engineering, something I knew I wanted to do since the seventh grade. Like any program, it started off easy then grew substantially more difficult.

In my second semester, I decided I wanted to be “pre-med”. I decided to go to medical school after my B.S. in BME to then become an oncologist and treat people like my mom.

Like anything, it is always easier said than done.

I signed up for all of the pre-med courses in addition to classes for my major, joined a lab at university, started volunteering, joined clubs, got executive positions, started shadowing; literally the whole shabang. I was determined to be a competitive applicant.

Then, during my second semester, I got a few exams results that were, let’s just say, “not very pre-med of me”. This was extremely shocking. (Although, in hindsight, I don’t really know why I was super shocked, as engineering is a hard major.) Anyways, I was on the verge of crying and pissing my pants when I opened Gradescope sometimes. It lead me to almost completely quit the pre-med track.

During this crisis, I reminded myself of when I was doing so poorly in sixth grade math. I mean, sixth grade math is not especially challenging, but that year threw me for a loop. I found it hard to grasp concepts, and my teacher would literally mock me when I did not have the correct answer. I went to my mom one day after class crying, asking if I could be moved from my advanced math class to the standard math class. I was so ready to quit because I didn’t like how much I struggled.

She looked me in the eyes after wiping my tears and said, “Catherine, you can leave this class now if you want to. But, picture how you would feel if you stuck it out and came out on the other side of this at the end of the school year. Wouldn’t you at least be proud of yourself?”

Upon hearing this, my 12-year-old self was like, “Fuck yeah, lady has a point!”

So I stuck it out. I put on a brave face everyday before class and tried my best to learn as much as I could. I may not have scored top marks, but I did well enough. And you know what? I was proud as hell of myself at the end of the school year.

Throughout middle and high school, I learned how to study and ask for help. My grades improved exponentially, and I ended high school with a 4.7 GPA.

Now, almost 8 years later, it is crazy to think that the same girl who struggled in math is now studying engineering. Never fucking give up. You don’t have to be the best, but at least have the grit to remain determined and fight for what will make you proud.

So, as I reminded myself of this story as I was sitting in my first year dorm at university, I realized that I should once again stick it out and do my best. I didn’t drop the pre-med track nor did I change my major; I simply decided to continue. I pictured myself walking across the stage to get my white coat, beaming with joy to my friends and family. I pictured myself sitting in my own doctor’s office with patients helping them figure out the struggles of health and life.

Exams scores are not always what you expect or hope for them to be. Sometimes you don’t ace that interview you thought was going to be a piece of cake. What matters is that you continue and don’t abandon ship.

(Now, I say this all with the exception that if something truly makes you miserable and adds nothing to your life, please remove that thing from your life. More on this in a future post.)

I might not have the perfect GPA, but I am determined. If I need to do a post-bacc or master’s before medical school to boost my GPA a bit, then no problem. I will continue to learn and grow but I will become a doctor one day.

It is not a question of if, but a question of when. It is not a matter of getting the best score on the first try, but a matter of maximizing learning over time.

So here’s the big take away: During challenging times, imagine yourself on the other side of it. Feel the warmth you will feel knowing you faced difficulty and conquered it. Stick it out, and that vision will become reality.

Lesson 1: Take pictures

It seems like a weird lesson to start off the blog, right? Well, you’re not wrong. At face-value this is such a basic, boring thing to learn. But it ties into a bigger lesson: appreciating what you have.

It is an extremely important lesson that even I sometimes forget.

When my mom was originally diagnosed with cancer, she was given 6 months to live. I was 9 years old at the time. I think I was just in shock, so I don’t remember much about how I felt. I do vividly remember the fear my mom had. I remember her reaction to recieving her diagnosis one evening in her bedroom. After the call, she wrapped my sister and me in her arms as she cried and begged God to give her more time.

A few weeks after she heard her diagnosis, I remember her taking so many pictures. She took so many pictures of my sister and me that it became routine to have to “act natural” for mom whenever we went somewhere. I found it annoying then, but now realize that she was highlighting the things in her life that added to her joy.

She was reminding her self of her reasons to fight.

After her death, I got to go through her phone to download pictures she had that I would want to keep. I found so many pictures of my sister and me, of friends, of places she traveled to that brought her joy. She even took pictures of the flowers in our garden or the food she cooked for us. She was finding beauty in every day and documenting that in her phone.

For about a year after her death, friends of hers would contact me to share memories of her. They would share pictures I had never seen of my mom on the playground in elementary school or at a club with her friends in DC.

And then I realized that photos are taken to remember.

I whip my phone or digital camera out whenever I am with friends or at a scenic place because I want to remember it in the future. I don’t want to forget the joy I experienced. I want my future kids to be able to look at my photos and think, “wow, you know, mom was pretty cool back in her day” just like I thought looking through my mom’s photos.

While taking photos can often be a meaningless task (just like if I were to take a photo of a sunset I liked or a grocery reciept to have my friend pay me back for something), it forces us stop and take a look at what we are grateful for. Literally, you have to stop, take out your phone, point it at something you like, and capture it.

(And don’t get me wrong, it’s not always that deep. I get it.)

I mean, I too have a camera roll filled with organic chemistry reactions and physiology diagrams. However, within those many, many photos, I have pictures I intentionally took to look back on and remember the emotions I felt during those moments.

Though my mom isn’t here, I can always look back on photos of her when I miss her.

So here’s the big take away: Document things that make you happy so that you can remember those experiences and emotions. Don’t let the business of school or work take away from enjoying the one life you have. Find joy in your every day. It will only make you see the beauty in living.