In my worst moments, or the minutes that don’t seem to matter, or the days that feel like the best ones I’ve lived, I struggle to feel like they are experiences that belong to only me. I often feel like I am living outside of my body, watching myself exist in the world not through my eyes, but from the eyes of those who love me most. I’ve read countless poems and quotes, ultimately surmising that humans are a mosaic of everything they’ve ever loved or been loved by: art, music, books, movies, friends, family, enemies, food, dreams, memories. There is no one person who has a personality, soul, or psyche that is made without the imprint of loving. So, it feels quite inadequate to exist in the world without seeing my life from these external perspectives too. How am I supposed to understand my heart without intimately knowing the forces that have shaped it?

Whenever I’ve had a crush, I’d imagine they’re silhouettes watching my every move. I’d examine what they’d think of the book I’m reading, if they’d count my outfit as cool, if they’d think the stuffed animal I sleep with at night is endearing or off putting.

When I’ve ended friendships, I can’t help but still see them in everything that is me. I eat foods that remind me of the meals we ate together. I post photos on Instagram and wonder if they’ll see it and miss me. I drive past their houses and know where every bedroom is, yet accept that I no longer belong there.

These out-of-body perspectives only last so long. They come in waves based on their relevancy to my life. But there is one set of eyes that I can never seem to blink away. My mother.

It is rare to have something in life that is so constant and sure. A presence that only pulls you closer as you violently push away. It’s truthful to say the way I see the world is molded by all that I’ve loved, but it is certain that there is nothing to be molded without the wholeness of a mother. I close my eyes at night and imagine my mom carefully selecting atoms, DNA, and bits of twinkling light. She holds each particle in her hand, softly connecting each piece to the other as I slowly take shape next to her. Just as much as I am my mother’s daughter, I am my mother. My cells were once the ones that belonged to her, she has lived my heartbreaks long before me, and she has carved out the anatomy of my soul.

Watching my life unfold from her eyes feels different than anyone else’s. I could agree that vanity, superficiality, and insecurity motivate my need to see my world from the outside. But it is quite the opposite with my mother. When I look into her eyes, squinting until I can see the reflection of mine, I see nothing but a mirror. As I judge my daily choices upon her perspective, I am not swayed to act cool, but rather my body aches with an intuition that yells from the other side of the storm.

I don’t see my mom as a separate being from me. Of course, there is an inevitable physical gap but even then, my head somehow fits perfectly in between the softness of her jawline and collarbone, her arms make the exact distance to wrap around me, and I know her hands like they’re the back of mine. This is no mistake. Her collective labor of gathering DNA and atoms and glimpses of light was to make me whole, but still carved out enough to leave space for both of us.

I imagine my mother and I made up of the same spiritual essence, identical love imprinted on our souls, but she stands 10 steps higher on the staircase than I do. She is all the lessons I’ve yet to learn and the calming outcome of my current uncertainties. But, as I eventually make it up the 10 stairs too, she is no longer there, she’s now 20 steps away. This ignites my raging fury of wanting to push away as she pulls me in. I’ve realized it’s quite frustrating to share a soul with someone who knows more than you. I find myself angry. Angry that I will never catch up to her. Angry that she too had to drag herself up the stairs. Angry that when my pushing finally subsides and I lean into her, she has already elevated. Angry that she will reach the end of the staircase before I do, and I will have no one to push and pull against but myself.

And then I imagine her rage. She is walking up the stairs too, except unlike me, she has to look behind her shoulder. She watches me take the wrong turn. Then she watches me not look where I’m walking as I trip on step #19. She rolls her eyes because she did that too and told me how to avoid it. But she knows I didn’t hear her. I haven’t reached her step yet, I’m still pushing away. And then she must watch my defeated body crawl back up, accepting that her warnings travel like a delayed echo. They’ll reach my ears after I’m bloody and bruised. Still, I am gifted with her immediate presence; the intuition screaming at me from the other side of the storm, and somebody has to be the storm.

So, I go back to living. I go back to watching my life play out from the eyes of anyone but mine. On the nights before taking a test I didn’t study for, I slap myself on the head, knowing I had the tools to succeed and opted against them. I feel mom slapping her head too. She didn’t study for that test either, it would’ve been so easy to pass.

When I crack open a bottle of wine with my friends, I laugh like my mother, this moment is one she remembers fondly. I look over and see my college-aged mom lighting a cigarette in the corner. She quickly puts it down.

“Don’t live this part. It’s stupid.”

I politely decline my friend who offers me a Marlboro Gold.

When I make my way to the gym I realize I’m on the back of my mom’s bike, she is blissful and discussing the beauty in being able to move her body. Then I blink and I’m back inside the gym.

I’m the one telling myself how lucky I am to move as I hesitantly continue running on the treadmill.

I guess the lines are very blurred when discerning if I’m hearing my mom’s voice or my own. But then it becomes clear. In these quick glimpses where I see the world so clearly from her eyes, we are on the same step. She graciously turns around, coming down a few levels in order to meet me where I’m at. She pays me a quick visit, whispers in my ear when I need her most, then floats back up to where she belongs.

I was recently texting my mom, sharing updates that I knew I needed to share from the moment they happened. That’s the other reason I know she is me. It’s like every second I live I’m already planning how I will tell her about it. It’s an ongoing conversation in my head.

As we were wrapping up our quick updates she responded to me with this:

“You are extraordinary. I can’t believe you’re my daughter and I get a front row seat of you.”

What a beautiful thing. How could my mom watch me fall up the stairs a million times, punch her in the face because someone punched me, hear me ignore her easy solutions to the deepest pains of life, and so genuinely believe I am extraordinary. She doesn’t just quietly accept my faults, but she embraces them. She knows with her whole being that I will get up those stairs with or without her.

I felt the blood and bruise from the past few stairs dry up. The harshness in me was quickly softened and I could see all that I’ve ever loved so clearly. Because if I am a mosaic of all that I’ve known. If I am my mother. My mother is all that I’ve ever loved.