Between Support and Strength
May is Mental Health Awareness Month. It also holds one of the most revered holidays—Mother’s Day. This piece holds space for both.
“You are not responsible for your mother’s happiness.” These were the first words my first therapist ever said to me, and they have lived quietly in the back of my mind since I was fifteen years old. My mom encouraged my siblings and me, from a very early age, to be comfortable seeking support—even if it meant turning to someone outside of our family: an elder, a mentor, a counselor, or a therapist. I chose a therapist.
Therapy has been part of my life’s journey, off and on, and I am deeply thankful to my mom for removing the stigma around it—for making mental wellness something we could speak about, rather than hide.
I do not want to speak to my mom’s personal journey with mental health. I can only speak to what I observed, and what I felt. I know she struggled—with her thoughts, her emotions—and that she sometimes sought support, and sometimes did not. But it was her resilience, and her encouragement, that I admired most.
There was an ebb and flow within our home—a movement between sadness and elation that shaped the atmosphere we lived in. As the eldest, I often filled the gaps, stepping in to create a sense of stability. It felt like a combination of intuition, intelligence, nurturing, and necessity. It was this very atmosphere that led me to my first therapy session.
That role has stayed with me. But what remains most significant is not the weight of it—it is what it taught me: to seek support.
I’ve found both strength and vulnerability in seeking support. I’ve had to admit my fragility, to accept my humanity, and to extend forgiveness—to myself and to others. I’ve come to recognize it as an act of self-love, one that requires trusting another person to hold what feels hardest to carry. It is the willingness to face the past, to sit with the truth of the present, and to move forward with greater clarity.
Today, my mom is living with dementia. And as I reflect on her journey and mine, I feel the duality of it all—sadness and grief, alongside gratitude and love.
This is a strength I am willing to carry.
As Your Memory Fades
I withheld bargaining,
to be present in its power as the hours compelled me
to sit—
and trace lines
across our hands.
My mind wandered along your years—to find them deeply,
embedded in mine.
Rather than ask for more—I found warmth in knowing,
what you can no longer remember,
I will hold—
until it’s my time.
— James Allen, 2026