Mother's Day Thoughts

“Hey, Mom, can you help me take a shower now?” I asked her at 23 years old. 

I never thought I would be asking my mom this question. I had become a pretty independent young adult, moving to NYC the year prior without having any real connections there. 

The shower help was a task I previously don’t remember her joining me on since I was a toddler. You know, I probably sat in the bathtub with all my rubber duckies. 

I remember her pouring water over my little wisps of hair while lightly covering her hand over my eyes so the soap didn’t sting them. 

Well she wasn’t protecting my eyes from soap anymore at 23, she was taking care of me in other tender ways. 

I had an accident where I was cooking on my gas stove, I leaned over to grab something out of the microwave above it, and my shirt caught the flame of the gas stove below.

With burns on more than 30% of my body, I ended up staying about 2.5 months in the intensive care unit of the hospital. 

While most of the burns were closed wounds when I left the hospital, some were still open on my back. 

These wounds required my moms help to take off the bandages before showering, and change with new ones and put on some special cream after showering. 

So, for these reasons, I now, at 23, for a couple weeks, was coordinating my showers with my mom. 

“Mom, can you put on 070 shake or Taylor Swift?” I requested 2 of my favorite artists that I thought would boost my mood as I stepped slowly into the shower. 

Still feeling the stings of water against my wounds I cringed as I cautiously dipped myself into and out of the water. 

We started singing together, me inside the shower behind the curtain, my mom waiting for me outside the curtain on the other side.

“Ahhh” I every so often I would interject between lyrics as the water hit directly upon my open wounds and then I would continue to sing with my mom. 

Eventually, about 5 to 10 minutes later, I would say louder than was probably necessary, given my mom was right outside, ”alright, I’m about done. You ready with the towel?” 

My mom had taken to heating up the towel safely above the radiator for me. 

“Yep! I got you Emmy!” she responded. 

I stepped out of the shower. My body was visibly shaking as my new skin was still figuring out how to regulate temperature. 

She wrapped the towel all around me quickly to provide me with any comfort she could. 

Part of our new bathroom routine was with lotion, too. 

Most of my burns were on my back so my mom rubbed lotion on there to keep it from being so dry and itchy. 

With music still blasting in the bathroom, we tried to dance through those moments — her gently cleaning my wounds and rubbing lotion onto my healing skin, while I stood facing the mirror, learning to recognize this new body I was growing into.

One time I remember I broke down crying as she put the lotion on my back. 

Unable to see what my future looked like and reflecting on all that happened to me I said, “Mom, I’m going to have to put lotion on my back forever.” 

I know it sounds silly, yet it was something I previously never thought about before my accident. 

“I know, it sucks,” she said back to me. 

Eventually, I stopped needing my moms help as much. 

I moved back to my apartment in NYC and continued to put lotion on my body every morning and night. 

I got to know myself as I stood in front of my mirror putting on lotion. 

I knew all my scars and I saw them evolving as I connected slowly with my new body. 

I recently went back home to celebrate Mother’s Day and I reminisced with my mom about those moments she helped me heal. 

I told her how much I loved our time together, even though it was painful.  

How I felt like a baby again, just wanting to be held. 

She hugged me and held me again. 

She sent me an email this week processing her emotions from my accident and about her time helping me shower. 

I’m going to put part of her email here, because she says her emotions best.

My mom writes, “It’s been four and a half years since your accident, and though time has passed, the memories of that time are still vivid in my heart and mind. 

I don’t look back on it with sadness as much as with deep gratitude—for your resilience, for our time together, and for the quiet gifts that emerged from such a painful time.

Helping you shower, clean your wounds, drive you to rehab—those weren’t just acts of care. 

They were sacred moments. Intimate. Tender. A kind of closeness that words don’t easily capture. 

I felt the fierce love of a mother who would do anything to ease your pain, but also the quiet joy of simply being near you, supporting you in a way that felt so deeply human and true.

Motherhood, I’ve come to learn, is one long, beautiful journey of letting go. 

From the moment you were born, you’ve been growing into your own person—stronger, wiser, more independent with each passing year.

And I’ve done my best to step back, little by little, always there if you reached for me, always cheering from the sidelines.  

The brief time after you came home, gave me a reminder of what it meant to be a mother of a child who needed me. I had to let you go all over again.” 

As I read that email on a bus ride back to NYC from my childhood home in Massachusetts, tears slowly started to roll down my face. 

I couldn’t agree more with my Mom. 

Some beautiful gifts, like feeling a closeness to my mom that words can’t truly describe, can most definitely emerge from painful times. 

I love you, Mom and happy Mother’s Day.