Daughter

My phone rings, distracting me from the toast I’m making and the one-year-old whining at my feet. I glance at the screen; it’s my mom. I answer with a quick, “Hey, Mom.” Then, I hurry to put the phone on speaker so I can pick up my son. With my other hand, I reach for my now-cold coffee on the counter. 

“Hi, Elle,” she says warmly. “How’s Lukas doing?” 

“Good,” I respond instinctively. And then I pause. My mom and I are close; I know I can go to her for anything. She has always been a safe place—the person I call when I need advice, or when I need to vent, or when I’m feeling overwhelmed. But now we’re both learning new roles. I’m stepping into my own role as mother. She’s still my mom, she’s still my anchor—but there has been a shift. 

Over the last year and a half, I’ve been changing and taking on new responsibilities. I’ve had to make calls on big things—like what’s best for my son, how to balance work and motherhood, and how to navigate difficult family dynamics. As I step up to make decisions for my family, she’s stepping back. The shift is subtle, but it's there. 

I take a sip of my cold coffee, and I repeat, “He’s good. You know, into everything.” I feel the unconditional care that I took for granted before becoming a mother myself. Now, I have a new understanding of how much she loves me. We talk like we always have—casual, familiar, filled with ease. And yet again, I am keenly aware that I’m becoming someone new. The daughter I once was is evolving into something more. 

We end the phone call, and Lukas lets me know that he wants to dance. My mom, my sister, and I would have dance parties growing up, jumping around the living room to our favorite songs, using movement to bond, to shake off bad moods, and to find joy in ordinary moments. It’s something I now do with my son. A ritual passed down without thought. 

As I go to turn the music on, a memory surfaces—one of those childhood memories that feels both distant and like it was yesterday. I’m in the backseat of our car, heading to soccer practice. I’m probably about eight or nine, singing and dancing with my mom to a song with unabashed freedom. I don’t fully understand it yet, but I yell with joy: “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother.” Meredith Brooks’ voice fills the car, and we sing off-key with her loudly. 

We would come back to this song over the years, belting it in the car together time and time again. As a kid, I’m not thinking about the meaning behind the words; I’m just happy to be singing with my mom. But now, I see how powerful and meaningful this song is. I see what my mom was instilling within us—even then. The song is about contradictions, about holding many identities at once, about being uncontained and unapologetically yourself. 

My mom showed me the many faces of womanhood without ever saying it outright. She modeled it in the way she navigated life—strong yet soft, patient yet firm, playful yet responsible. She never sat me down to explain what it meant to be a woman or a mother, but I learned by watching her. I learned it in the way she kissed scraped knees and balanced work with laughter. 

As I look back on this memory, I see my mom singing it in a new light—how she was trying to navigate all these parts of herself, just as I’m now trying to do. We aren’t just mothers, we are so much more than that. 

I decide to put that song on for Lukas and me. As we jump around the kitchen, I sing these same lyrics in a new chapter of my life. We don’t yet drive to soccer practice, but the melody still connects us—myself, my son, my mother—our identities tangled together in this ever-changing truth of ‘I am not one, but all of these things.’ 

I hold Lukas in my arms, and we spin around; I realize how much of my mother is in me. How much of my grandmother, too. The lullabies I sing, the food I make, the ways we spend our time—it’s all echoes of them. I hear my mother’s voice in mine. I hear my grandmother’s voice in mine. I am lucky—my mother and grandmother showed me unconditional love, compassion, and strength. I want to be the mothers they are, to give Lukas the same feeling of security, love, and sense of home that they give me. 

Just yesterday, I sent my mom a photo of a funny face Lukas was making, and she responded, “He looks just like you; you used to do that too.” And I could picture it perfectly. I could see my mom thirty years ago, my same age, with a child (me) the same age as Lukas is now. It’s the ’90s, and she’s wearing high- rise jeans (like I do now). She’s cuddling me. She’s dancing with me. We’re both laughing. We’re both making silly faces. 

There’s something profound about these small, everyday echoes—these moments that seem insignificant in isolation but, when woven together, become the link between generations and connect us to all the parts of ourselves. It’s in the traditions we carry forward. It’s the habits we pass down. With this awareness, we get the chance to choose what we want to share with the next generation. Instead of just emulating the people who raised us, we can bring forward the best parts of them while carving out our own path. 

I’ll never stop being a daughter or being a granddaughter—just as now I will never stop being a mother. “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother.” I am all of these things. I am my mom, I am my grandmother, I am my own person. 

As I dance with my son in the kitchen, I realize that I am constantly changing but always, always connected to the generations of women before me who helped make me who I am today. And all of us are so much more than just one thing.