The hero voice inside me whispers, "Write. Keep going. Share your voice. The time is now."
On my original birth certificate the first name is "Baby". The middle name is "Girl".
Growing up as a baby put up for adoption is the only reality I know.
The woman at my first foster home named me "Amy." I guess she liked the name or maybe that was what I looked like to her.
Over the years, I have been called a lot of names in my life. Some unkind. Some softer than others. Some that fit. Some that didn't. Some that felt wrong, others that felt like endearment. One in particular that I was keenly fond of. Given to me by the woman who adopted me. My mother. Who was also my hero. For many reasons. Not just the obvious one. She was kind, dedicated her life to the greater good. Was a problem solver. Aways trying to help, to solve, to figure out, to assist, to support.
She was my shining diamond in a gruffy rough.
I absolutely would not be where I am without the love she gave me. I would not believe in myself the way she taught me.
I would not have the confidence in myself that she gave me.
Before her, I had no voice. My story, my name, didn't matter. I was only a child called by what others wanted. Assumed I would be ok, because I would have to be. No one asking how I felt, what I needed, if I was alright.
But she did.
Instilling in me that I did have a voice. That someone did care. Someone wanted the best for me. Someone wanted to show me the way. Someone wanted to take the time to teach me. So I could one day be successful, happy. That one day I would know I mattered... to her.
Her being not only enough... her being everything.
That one person's love changing not only how I viewed my world, but how I viewed myself.
I now realize people can and will call me whatever they choose. But I also now know, I don't have to answer. I can call myself what I believe I am. What fits. What feels right. I have a voice that mattered to her. That now matters to me.
She was my hero. Her love not only changed me. It made me.
She left me with the belief in myself. To carry her with me. To carry her voice in mine.
That little no named girl now has one. How that little no named girl feels matters. That little girl will be ok because she was taught how to be.
Yes, my mother was my hero. But her voice now lives in mine. I am my own hero now for believing that. For releasing myself on the page. Announcing I am here. Knowing all the way... it matters.
That little hero voice whispering, "Write. Keep going. Share your story." Is hers. I now know how important it is to listen. Change happens when I do.
I will now take care of my mother's daughter the way she did. The way she insisted. The way she taught me to.
I will continue to write our story while sharing with her the honored title of "hero". A name that fits. That feels right. That matters. While I, along with her, am becoming my own... just as she taught me.