Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

I am my mother after all

My mother’s trademark has always been her comically large, completely face-consuming glasses. Over the years, I’ve watched her collect various pairs in every colour and shape imaginable and yet somehow, they just keep getting bigger. This winter break, needing a new prescription, I instinctively chose an equally oversized, way-too-big-for-my-face pair. When I tried them on, I immediately thought: I look just like my mother. 

The truth is, we all grow up thinking we’ll never become our parents. We admire them without a doubt and how they seamlessly balance their careers, family and personal lives with such ease. But still, we insist that we're different; we become absolutely convinced that we’ll carve identities separate from theirs. In reality, doing so without their influence or subtle infiltration is more of an impossibility than we think. In the smallest ways — a habit, a phrase, or a preference — and before we know it, we catch glimpses of them in ourselves. 

Maybe it’s inevitable. We spend years watching them, absorbing their quirks and their preferences. Even as we try to assert our identities, they remain ingrained in us, shaping the way we move through the world. Whether this was consistently bringing a scarf on the plane to use as a makeshift blanket or always taking the small sewing kits from hotels (never to use them), I’ve come to embrace these echoes of my mother rather than resist them. It made me realise that no matter how much I try to define my growing independence, my upbringing will always shape me. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. 

Perhaps, in moments of uncertainty, new places or responsibilities, we reach for those familiar traits without even realising it. I think there’s a certain comfort in the sense of familiarity they bring. Beginning university this year came with an expected wealth of change. In the midst of it all, while trying to find my way around this new life, I found myself clinging to routine comforts. How I boil water for tea only to forget about it, how I instinctively tuck a pack of tissues into every bag, just as she always told me to, or how I can’t use my phone without stopping walking — these aren’t grand gestures or conscious choices, but they have a way of making me feel more settled than I expected.

It’s not just my mother, either. My father’s mannerisms and sensibilities have crept into my daily life, too. His way of bonding with me has always been sending albums, songs, or artists he thinks I’d enjoy. Now, I find myself doing the same with my friends, passing along music to connect and share something personal. It’s in the smaller things I’ve picked up too, like how he always has the Steve Miller Band playing while he drives — nowadays if you’re getting in my car, you’d better be okay with listening to the whole ‘Fly Like an Eagle’ album.

At some point, the resistance to becoming our parents fades. I’ve recently found that this resistance is replaced by an understanding that their influence isn’t something to resist. If anything, it’s something to appreciate. I used to think that growing up meant defining myself in contrast to them; now, I think it’s more about taking the best parts of them and making them my own. 

My mom always reminds me: “You are who you hang out with,” and I think this holds true: we become the best version of ourselves when we’re shaped by the people we love. Maybe my new oversized glasses aren’t just a style choice; maybe they’re a subconscious embrace of the parts of my mother that have always been and will continue to be present in me. Ultimately, I’m convinced that there are a few certainties in life: taxes, death, and turning into your mother.

Image from Wikimedia Commons