Two weeks ago, I attended a funeral.
One I’d never have expected to attend so early on in their (or my) life.
On a rainy Monday morning in Kettering, I said my final goodbye to Sharon – the mother of a woman I’d called my sister (one of my best friends) for almost twenty years.
It was a heavy, emotional day – and also a reminder of my own story.
Now just over a fortnight later, I’m marking another period of mourning.
On 10 November 15 years ago, my own mother passed away. It was monumental life event that, until just recently, I realised I hadn’t truly grieved. Nor processed.
For all the hours I’d spent studying, meeting deadlines, aiming for the stars – trying to make my parents proud – I’d not really learnt about life: how to love, how to live, how to grieve.
How to communicate across borders, I’d learnt that, yes. How to transport readers through one culture to another, that too.
How to listen, how to talk, how to empathise with the “other” – one another – that also.
But never with myself; to understand my inner child, my wants, my wounds, my needs.
With three degrees under my belt, a fairly long working history, the dream of being published having come true, I could say I’d achieved to some extent. I have and for that I am thankful.
I’ve added heaps of knowledge to the memory bank, or the filing cabinet in my head as I call it. And extra notches to my belt.
Yet at the beginning of a delayed – and long – journey of grieving, I’ve come to realise that none of the learning went deep enough.
In fact, the more I learnt about the world, the further and further I grew from myself. Until it all came to a halt. A stark halt.
But that’s not what learning’s about. Not at its core. I was just doing it wrong.
Determined to help make the world a better place, I looked at the outside – never in. I learnt about the world – not myself.
From an early age, I grew up immersed with learning, encouraged through education. It was my foundation.
My mum was a teacher – first secondary, and then primary. She built her life on education.
It’s what gave her opportunities in life, how she met my dad (at teachers’ parties in Bristol) and it’s what our home was built on.
When my dad eventually retired early from teaching to look after my mum after she’d become ill, he’d been teaching in secondary schools for over 30 years.
One of my earliest childhood memories is of my parents telling me: “Education is never wasted”. And it’s true.
It’s those words that stuck with me throughout school, university, college and beyond. Throughout my life to date.
It’s those values that drove them to sacrifice, to build, to nurture, to grow. For my sake.
And I can’t thank them enough.
It’s something I was reminded of once again, just a few weeks ago, when I started a new job at a university. A switch of sectors – from the world of charities to education – I’m very much enjoying my new role and I’ve settled in well.
Something in particular though that got me thinking was this unique feeling that my mum would have been happy. That she was happy. That she’s proud of me. I could somehow feel it.
I shared my thoughts with my dad and he immediately agreed.
He also agreed to follow mine and my mum’s suit (no pun intended) and to stick to the smarter end of the dress code – just like mum would have done (a perfect excuse for some shopping of course!).
15 years after her passing, it’s those things that stay with me. The life lessons. The values and lessons my mum put into practice inside and outside of the classroom.
It’s these things that I try to emulate down here, whilst she’s “up there”.
Nowadays, I can’t call mum. I can’t ask her for advice. I can’t show her where I am or what I’m doing.
Well, I try to. I know she’s up there, but it’s my journey now.
Yet it’s those life lessons, those values that carry me through. And that make me realise that no one has all the answers. Not me, not my mum, nor society.
We’re learning all the time – or supposed to be.
Approaching my 40s, the older I now get, the more I feel I’m learning, unlearning – and building my own toolkit at the same time.
To help me navigate life, work, relationships, and – I hope – being a wife and mother myself too one day.
Forever shall I have immense gratitude for all my teachers, schools, for everyone that played a part of my education. It’s thanks to them that I’m who I am today – and able to write this blog!
But despite the immense highs, I can’t help look back and wish for more. To have been able to learn more about life – sooner, rather than later.
To learn about consent in relationships, about budgeting, about what makes a healthy relationship, about attachment styles, healing childhood trauma and the “big questions” – before, rather than later, when the backpack’s a little bit heavier, a little bit scruffier and a little bit harder to put down.
Today, there are so many things I still don’t know about my mum. And possibly won’t ever.
I’m still trying to piece together her story, her history as a woman, born in one land and (partly) raised in another. As a mother, juggling financial responsibilities and childcare. Of societal expectations, family demands, and heaven knows what else.
And I’m not sure she had all the answers either. No one does.
The older I get, the more I’m humbled in agreement with how little I actually know. And that lived experience is my best asset.
For as Socrates said: “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing”.
Well, perhaps not nothing! Looking at my own faith, Jewish tradition teaches that learning is a lifelong commitment. Debate, questioning, it’s all for a greater purpose: requiring wisdom (integrated knowledge) to help us repair the world (tikkun olam).
Christianity, Islam and many other traditions teach the same. Putting knowledge into practice through wisdom helps driving positive change. To repair the word, to embrace (spiritual) jihad, to strive for better – and ultimately change the world.
As a society, we talk a lot about change. About the need to change the narrative, to broaden access to opportunities, about the importance of treasuring diversity, of smashing the glass ceiling – and many more crucially important themes that I’ll stand for till my dying day.
Because, yes, I’d like to think that we’ve made some progress, but not enough. Not enough. Because, who knows what battles my mum had to fight.
That many more women like her continue to. And so too for all those who are living with the effects.
For real change will be when we no longer pass down our wounds, when the cycle is broken, when generational trauma isn’t something you discover through a book or an Instagram reel two or three generations later. When as children, we’re equipped with the tools to live the fullest lives possible – on a wound-free slate, a stranger to survival mode, to face life in all its myriads of ways.
May your memory be a blessing, mum. Thank you for blessing me with life, love and learning.
I love you forever and always.
Dedication
This blog is dedicated to my mum and to dear Sharon. Rest in peace. May your memories be a blessing.
