After a month of showering my mother with love, I dried off and found myself still thirsty.
I forgot twice to call. I showed up one day in a terrible mood and was short with her. That’s fine. Perfection is the enemy of presence. Just keep showing up. After a month of showering my mother with love ...
Showering someone with love for an extended period acts as a solvent for old resentments. In the warmth of consistent affection, the sharp edges of past arguments began to soften. Because I was committed to being loving, I lost the urge to be "right." I found that when I stopped reacting to her occasional fussiness with my own defensiveness, her fussiness often evaporated on its own. Love, it turns out, is the ultimate de-escalator. By choosing to see her not just as a parent with expectations, but as a person with her own history and anxieties, I allowed her the space to be vulnerable with me. After a month of showering my mother with
After a month of showering my mother with love, I began to notice a profound change in our relationship. It wasn't just the big things, like how she smiled more or how her eyes sparkled when I walked into the room. It was the small things too – the way she'd hum to herself while cooking dinner, the way her laughter sounded a little more carefree, and the way she'd occasionally surprise me with small gestures of affection. That’s fine
Showering her with love now—while she can still walk through the park, while she still remembers the names of her old neighbors, and while she can still laugh until she cries—is the only way to live without future regret. Final Thoughts
Perhaps the most surprising outcome is how much this month changed me. Showering her with love didn't just make her happier; it anchored me. In a world that demands we constantly "hustle" and look toward the next big thing, the simple act of focusing on another person's well-being provided a rare sense of peace. I learned that the "love" I was giving was actually a form of attention—the purest gift one human can offer another.
One afternoon, she pulled out an old photo album. Black-and-white pictures. A young woman with my mother’s eyes but a harder jawline—her own mother, my grandmother, who raised five children after her husband left. My mother pointed to a photo of my grandmother ironing a shirt at 11 p.m.