The First Hand I Ever Held
Nostalgia's Soapbox
“A mother is she who can take the place of all others but whose place no one else can take.” — Cardinal Mermillod
Moving to another state halfway across the country took its toll on me. I felt spontaneous in the moment I applied, excited for this new adventure in life—but as we packed up the car and began our four-day-long trip to my destination, reality began to set in. In the car, it was just me and my mama. I showed her new music, cried about hardships I hadn’t found the time to get off my chest, and listened to her share stories from her past that I had never heard before.
On the second night—instead of staying at a hotel—we stayed with my mom’s college roommate, who she hadn’t seen in almost 15 years. They talked and laughed like two young college girls, and some strange feeling made me slightly sick to my stomach. It was sad how time takes, moves, and never stops for us. I felt this anger towards time itself I couldn’t explain. Life was beautiful in that way—happiness was only a small part of its beauty, and there was beauty in the sad parts too.
The last night we had together, we stayed at a hotel. We ordered CAVA and watched The Princess Diaries—one of my mom’s favorite films. We laughed and talked together, and for a brief moment I wanted to cry. I felt like I was leaving too soon somehow. I had lived out of my home for years now, but never this far away—my parents were always a couple of hours away at most—never a whole flight, planned trip, or several days’ drive away.
I felt this twinge of betrayal that was hard for me to process—not that I betrayed anyone, since they were happy for this next chapter and so was I—but it still sat there in the pit of my stomach that day. It achingly made me want to forget all the plans and just go back home. Not to the house, but to the near presence of my family that I so dearly missed in those moments—and still do.
People in books and movies never really talk about the guilt of leaving, the guilt of moving on, and the guilt of starting a new chapter with only your name as the title. I never prepared myself to hear their voice on the phone and know—this time they really are far away, and I am really out in this world on my own.
I love my mama.
She has watched as I made mistakes, watched as I learned on my own, and watched when I ran to her for more advice when this ugly world couldn’t hold me the way she could. She was a rock in the storm, and the voice I could hear through thoughts that tried to drown me.
She held my hand when my fingers could finally hold. She held my hand when I crossed the road. She held my hand when she balanced me on the ice. She held my hand when I couldn’t stand on my own.
In every moment that fear flashed inside my chest, her hand was there to hold. When nightmares came and storms rattled the house, her warm grip calmed my insides. But that day—before leaving to catch her flight—she hugged me…
And for the first time, we both let go.
She’ll be there in the ways she can, but for the first time I am truly walking on my own, sorting through problems the way I know how, and being my own rock. There is a beauty in this process, one that I wasn’t sure I was ready to see—but now that I have, I just want to take a moment to thank my mama for everything she’s taught me, every moment she comforted me, and all the memories that made my childhood beautiful in a storm.
She will always be the first hand I ever held.
Dear Mama,
When I saw you with your college roommate, I realized that somewhere in the moments of growing up, I had forgotten—you were just a girl inside too. You are the strongest woman I know and the closest friend I’ll ever have.
Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, for all you’ve sacrificed for this family, and for the joy you brought into our lives in the darkest moments. You were a rock—but you were always my mama first. You are a blessing in my life, and I appreciate you more than words can say.
Mama, you will always be the first hand I ever held.
I love you,
Anya
Dedicated to my beautiful Mother.
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Oh Anya, how I miss my Mommie so very much. You talked about beauty in the sad things and my mother's death is that for me. I miss her terribly, but the good that came from her death is something I cannot deny. I'm working on her overdose story.
I’m truly happy for you. You share such a beautiful bond with your mom. Thanks for letting us be a part of that by sharing it.