Mothers and Daughters, and the Fight for What We Believe

It all started in Nantucket.

I found myself at odds with my mother last week. Before her arrival, I cleaned our apartment with anticipation, counting down the days until she was here. My fiancé, Trevor, and I washed the sheets on the guest bed, hung up the last remaining pieces of art around the house, laid out fresh towels and put the finishing touches on our guest bathroom.

To this day, I notice myself vying for my mother’s approval. I catch myself wondering, “Will she like my new apartment? Will she like the way I’ve decorated it? What will she think of where I live?” It’s funny when you notice yourself asking those sorts of questions. It’s almost embarrassing. Like, why do I care so much? Why does this matter?

When she arrived, she loved the place, which made me happy. But our first few days together were surprisingly challenging. It began the day we went to Nantucket. We wore our best spring outfits, I drove us down to Hyannis so we could catch the ferry and journey across the water. When we arrived, I found myself on the edge of impatience all afternoon. We bickered about politics, about capitalism really. We debated passionately about parenting styles. I made comments about my objections to Christianity, the faith my parents gave me. Every comment I made was met with a rebuttal from her. Every statement she made, I replied with a snippety come-back.

These exchanges left me feeling frustrated, hot-tempered, fiery, impatient and impulsive with my words. I told myself, “Anna don’t say anything, just let it go,” and yet I physically could not let it go. My frustrations were too overbearing. I fought dirty—she didn’t. And that was the difference between her and I. She could restrain herself from stooping low, and I couldn't. I thought I had moved past that stage, but family has a way of revealing what still lingers beneath the surface.

For days after our excursion to Nantucket, a stench of judgment and criticism lingered, filling the walls of my apartment. More things were said. Exchanges were had. Perhaps, both of us felt we weren’t arguing for our beliefs any longer, but instead defending our characters. As if to say, "Is it my beliefs you have a problem with, or is it me? Are you judging and criticizing me?"

If I'm being honest, I am hard on my mother and the rest of my family. It’s difficult for me to see them as separate from myself. I fear judgment, not only from them, but from others who might perceive their beliefs as reflections of my own.

After days of arguing, I saw a surrendering in my mother. She didn’t want to continue and neither did I. We immersed ourselves in the process of planning my wedding, brainstorming ideas for business, and ultimately finding common ground.

On the last day, as I was dropping her off at the airport, she told me, “I love you, Anna. I’m glad I came. I’m not harboring any of that old stuff as I go home. I have good memories from this trip.” Her words carried a tenderness, filling the space between us.

I began to see a small, subtle shift happen at the base of my heart. In that moment, I realized I would rather foster a character of openness, then one of obstinacy, always trying to prove others wrong. I want to be a person who strives to understand others, instead of labeling them. It’s easy to shut down in the thrushes of a heated argument, it’s far more noble to stay open. Instead of striving to be right, I want to stay open. To stay soft. To remain curious and uncritical, even in the face of fear.

Despite our disagreements last week, my mom showed me that it's possible to hold different beliefs while remaining soft and tender, with a desire to truly understand the other person. In the end, I realize, it's not about being right or wrong, but about being kind, open, and graceful. Just like her.