The first person to believe in me was my mom and her belief in me has been unwavering. Even when I have suffered with not believing in myself, she has remained steadfast in her belief of what I can accomplish and what I will become.
I am sure there were countless times as a young child that I doubted myself or my abilities. My mom would likely disagree, because she would never have seen any of those moments that way. My mother believed I could conquer any obstacle, be friends with whomever I chose, impress others with my intelligence and generally do anything I set my mind to.
As I grew, the challenges of life became more stringent. In preparing to leave on a solo trip to live in country over 10,000 kilometers from home, where I did not speak the language; there were days prior to my departure that I doubted my resolve and worried I would miss my friends and family and the comforts of home. Not my mother. Not once did she concur with my assessments. Rather, she rallied me, she cheered and buoyed my spirits and put me on that plane– sure as ever that I would be fine. When I arrived in Tokyo and was taken to what I was told was a luxurious “American-style” hotel for the evening prior to my departure for my destination city, I was flummoxed; I put the key in to the door to a hotel room that I swear barely held a single bed and a night table that precariously held a teapot and a telephone. The bathroom door, when swung open in full covered up most of the room; the shower stall was claustrophobic. The July heat hung on me like a wet, hot blanket and I went to the window to bring in anything that might resemble a breeze to cool me and the closet I was about to sleep in, only to draw the curtains and find the view of a brick wall less than a metre away. I dialled Canada and poured tears in to the phone asking my mother if I had not just made the most colossal mistake of my life. As calmly and serenely as the Buddha himself, my mother dried my tears over the telephone line and assured me that I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing and that I could handle everything, it would be fine. It was.
Still now, I face trials in my faith of myself. Over the last few years my partner and I have tried to start our family. As we began, we worried that we would not be able to conceive. After over a year of trying we were thrilled that we were at last pregnant. When I miscarried, I was devastated. This was only the beginning. After four miscarriages, I have seen my hormones rocket and plummet, my waist line expand and contract, and my ability to have any faith in the fact that I will become a mother deviate between cautious excitement and unadulterated depression. At times it was too difficult to imagine doing my job, talking to my friends or getting out of bed. But my mother would have none of it. She laid next to me in that bed many times, and she listened. She cried as if I had relinquished my pain to her as her own. But stop believing in me, and the family I so desperately want to have? No. Despite the conduct of my body, the websites that fill me with abject terror and the fact that no doctor is sure of a solution to this fertility predicament; my mother is ardent in her belief that I will become a mother. No matter how bad the news we get seems to be, my mother tinkers with it and extracts the glimmers of hope, ties all her positive energy to it and believes, like a four year old waiting for Santa, that all will be alright.
She has believed in me the longest; despite times when I may have tested her resolve. She has been dogged in her earnestness about me even when I could not see that same woman when I looked in the mirror. She will be the most wonderful grandmother to my child, and she tells me I will be an amazing mother; I just want to prove us both right.