What 1,800 miles on the road taught me about my mother’s love

& on micro-dosing your creative practice

5 days, 4 nights, and 1,800 miles: the makings of a mother-daughter roadtrip from Denver to New York. This one would be our third together, my mom always volunteering as my trusty co-pilot anytime I’ve made an out-of-state move. So, on one late Friday morning, after tearful goodbyes on Jersey Street, we set out with two suitcases & a dog in tow for the rolling green pastures of the Hudson Valley.

Over the following days, we drove through grassy, gorgeous middle America, squealing every time we saw cows grazing on the side of the road, or hawks circling overhead. We discovered a penchant for highway pit-stops, which always had clean bathrooms, picnic areas, and easy access back to the highway. We spent hours beside each other, chitchatting about nothing, about everything; the endless road offering a soft, fleeting container to ask the questions that hadn’t yet had the space to blossom.

My mom is my best friend. She moved to Sacramento shortly after I moved to San Francisco, and followed me to Denver a few years later, where she met her now-husband. She’s been present for every moment in my life, both big & small, always showing up with hugs and home-cooked meals. My move means we’ll be living apart for the first time in a long time, but somehow I have a deep knowing that we’ve completed a big part of our soul contract: supporting each other on our journeys to learning what true love is. Now, we can physically part, more comforted knowing we’ve each found the person that will care for us for the rest of our days.

My mom & I had a blast on our very ordinary, very beautiful roadtrip. We discovered peaceful parks in quaint towns, linked arms while skipping down hotel hallways, and threw our hands up with laughter each time we were served a terrible meal (which, is almost always when you’re traveling through middle America).

On our stop through Davenport, Iowa, we stayed at Hotel Blackhawk, a historic hotel with old-world charm. We decided to take our time there, deeming it our “spa day,” and had a slow morning before hitting the road again. My mom & I turned on the TV to an episode of House Hunters featuring a single mom and their daughter. We watched leisurely, sipping on our watery hotel coffee.

“What a good daughter,” my mom said, as the daughter on screen offered helpful advice to their mother while they viewed houses. “Just like you.”

My mom teared up as she told me how much she loves me, and how proud of me she is. Later that morning, I nestled into a cozy sofa in the hotel lobby with a jazz duo playing (likely my most lavish morning-page accompaniment to date), and a poem came flowing out of me.

Swan Creek Park in Toledo, OH

This time with my mom has taught me a lot about her love. It is magnanimous, enduring, and never-failing. Her love is infused into every meal she makes, every airport pick-up, every FaceTime call asking to see the boys (our dog & our cat). Over the years, my mom has grown & evolved alongside me, picking up on the lessons I’ve learned about boundaries, the pitfalls of over-giving, and our deserving-ness within romantic relationships. And while she often shies away from direct conversations about deep or difficult topics, her depth finds its way out with benign entry points like House Hunters, or an expansive open road and the luxury of time.

Mom & I during her wedding weekend in Wisconsin 💞

This transition is also teaching me to lower the stakes for my creative practice. As I’ve been moving, staying at different places, and settling into a brand new space, my morning ritual has shifted with my changing circumstances. Instead of writing poems in the mornings (per my usual creative practice), I’ve been writing whenever I am feeling feelings, at any hour of the day: stealing a few minutes to jot down lines while I’m packing, or as I’m sipping to-go coffee in a hotel lobby. It’s been a triumphant return to Notes App Poems, which feels romantic and rebellious in an anti-institutional type of way.

Art, in its purest and greatest form, was never meant to be regimented, industrialized, or capitalized on. It was meant to flow out of the essence of life, out of love, out of our very ordinary & very beautiful human experience.

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