Happy Birthday, Mom

Today would have been my mom’s 91st birthday, and I’ve been thinking about her a lot today. About our relationship. About how differently my life might have turned out if she hadn’t loved me the way she did.

If my mom hadn’t been so quietly, fiercely supportive of me being gay, if she hadn’t just been cool about it, I don't know where I’d be. Her love wasn’t loud, but it was constant. Steady. The kind of love that changes everything.

My mom and I were 40 years apart. I think about her in her early 40s, uprooting her life to move to a brand-new country with four small kids and only what we could pack into our suitcases. She didn’t know much English. All she knew was that she was heading somewhere safer, somewhere with more promise for her children than the place we were leaving behind. She had survived a Japanese occupation, the loss of a child, martial law, a cheating husband, and the upheaval of moving her entire life to a whole ass new country. And she thrived while doing it.

My siblings and I were her dream, the reason for every risk and every sacrifice she ever made. We were able to get an education, to live out the American Dream my parents worked so hard for. We came here with nothing. I grew up in poverty. I became a naturalized citizen at 18. And through all of it, my mom gave me the love and support I needed to survive and thrive in a country that hasn’t always been kind to people like us. Strangers in a strange land.

But my parents made a life here anyway. They carved out space, they struggled with dignity, and they never thought of themselves as anything less than American. They earned their citizenship through years of hard work and determination, and they were proud of that.

Everything I am is because of my mother.

When I came out to my mom, I was twenty-one. I’d been gay for a while, but I still hadn’t come out to my parents. I don’t know what came over me that day, but it felt like the right moment. We were driving and I just said, “Mom, I’m gay.” She was quiet for a beat, then said, “As long as you're happy. Don’t tell your dad.” And that was it.

No dramatic conversations. No asking why. No guilt or confusion. No “we’re Catholic, you can’t be gay.” Just: you’re still my daughter, nothing changes. But your dad’s gonna be pissed (and yes, he eventually found out and reacted... as expected).

My mom, and even my dad, in his way, weren’t going to love me any less. What they feared wasn’t me being gay. It was the world. They knew the world could be cruel to someone like me. But I was their child. No matter what.

I wish more people could have that kind of experience. That kind of quiet, unwavering acceptance. The kind my mother offered me is why I’m fearless. Why I can live authentically. Why I strive to be good. Because my mother didn’t know how to love any other way.

When people ask me why I do what I do, it’s because of my parents. Because of my mother. Even though she’s no longer around, I am her legacy. I was her reason to keep pushing, keep struggling, keep surviving. I honor her memory, her heart, her soul, by being the best version of myself every single day. Because without her love, I honestly don’t know who I’d be.

My mom wasn’t a big woman, but to me she stood tall. Proud. She barely reached 4’11”. I remember her telling me back in 2009, “You’re big now, Vangie. You can carry me when I’m too old to walk.” I would carry my mother to the ends of the earth if it would bring her back. Even knowing my back would give out, I’d still do it. That’s how much I miss her.

Happy birthday, Mom.

I love you.

Mahal kita.

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