I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom during the past few months, as I’ve watched her health decline, moved her into a 24/7 care facility and set her up with hospice care. I’ve been thinking about how she’s influenced me, what she’s modeled for me and taught me, how much she has meant to me, and how much I love her.

When I was little, people often commented that I really resembled her, which always confused and amused me, because I’m adopted. She was so feminine and dainty, and when I was a kid I was definitely a tomboy. She never cried or showed her emotions, and I couldn’t hide mine if my life depended on it. She had a very traditional marriage with my dad. I never once saw my dad serve himself food or clear his plate from the dining table. I was fiercely independent and precocious and progressive. She always kept quiet when my dad got angry about something and never seemed to be impacted by it, while I lived in fear of his anger and felt frustrated with her for never standing up to him — on her behalf or on mine.

I remember my mom giving me sewing lessons when I was 7 or 8. She invited a small group of girls from my class at school to our house, created sewing projects for us, and taught us how to sew; one of the other mothers taught us how to cook at her house. She signed me up for ballet and piano lessons, and got me into the bell choir at the Armenian church we attended. She exposed me to different activities, but all the activities seemed to require me to sit still and concentrate. I wanted to spend my time doing things that let me run around and play and be active and hopefully even outdoors. There was nothing more thrilling to me than when I tagged along to my brother’s AYSO soccer practice and found out that I could outrun all the boys on his soccer team!

I looked at all the ways in which my mom and I were different, and I felt she didn’t really get me. And I could find plenty of evidence for that. I have always loved physical touch, and my mom has patted me on the back and pulled away quickly every time I have ever given her a hug. I just wanted to be held, and my mom, who expresses love through verbal affection, has always been incredibly uncomfortable with physical affection that stretched beyond holding hands. It was so easy for me to not feel understood by her. Why hadn’t she encouraged me to play team sports — something I excelled in when I was finally exposed to them through school teams, but could have been much better at if I had been on teams before I got to junior high school? Why didn’t she stay with me and hold me until I fell asleep during the months when I woke up in the middle of practically every night with nightmares? Her taste in clothes was so different from mine, that every time she tried to buy clothes for me, I grimaced and told her that I didn’t like them. It got so bad that by the time I got to middle school my parents were already giving me money for Christmas rather than gifts, and telling me that they wanted me to buy myself something that I liked.

Then again, there were the things that she really did get, like my love of horses. I fell in love with horses when I was 6, and when I begged my parents to let me ride, she was the one who signed me up for weekly riding lessons (which I continued until I was 12 or 13), let me “rent” a pony for a month every summer, and even sent me to horse camp one year.

And when, as a freshman in high school, I told this daughter of a minister that I no longer wanted to attend church and didn’t believe in Christianity, she accepted my decision and never — ever — made me feel guilty about it. I told her I couldn’t reconcile that friends of mine who were Jewish or Atheists weren’t going to go to heaven because they hadn’t accepted Jesus as their personal savior even though they were good, loving people. I told her that if that’s what heaven was like, I didn’t want any part of it. I’m sure she cringed inside, but outwardly she told me that she loved me and wouldn’t force me to do something that I didn’t want to do.

I feel so blessed to have my mom (who was 46 when she adopted me) still alive and present in my life. I have always felt so honored to be her daughter, and so clear about how much I love and respect her.

My mom hasn’t always loved me in the way that I’ve wanted or felt I needed, but she has always loved me — with every fiber of her being — and her love for me has always been unwavering and unconditional. What I realize now, is that it was my ability to receive her love that was sometimes conditional — just because it didn’t look the way I wanted it to or thought that it should. Now that I see that and really get it, I’m able to just relax into the softness and the beauty of the love that has been there all along. And what I find is that her unconditional love is absolutely delicious!