A Saturday Soul mug beside framed photographs of Angie and her mother, a vintage family portrait and a 76th birthday card in a warm autumn setting.

Saturday Soul: Before I Was Gigi, I Was Her Girl

Celebrating her mom’s 76th birthday in Clear Lake, Angie reflects on the young woman who raised her—and why, even as Mom and Gigi, she will always be her girl.

5 min read

Last week, I wrote about watching my daughter be a mom and how much I love being Gigi. I talked about those busy days of raising kids, the exhaustion that sometimes comes with motherhood, and the beautiful privilege of watching your own children become parents. This weekend, I’m heading to Clear Lake to celebrate my mom’s 76th birthday. And somewhere between those two stories, I’ve found myself thinking about my mom in a way I probably haven’t always taken the time to do.

Before I was Mom, I was her girl. And I still am.

My mom was just 19 years old when I was born in 1970. My dad and I share a birthday, so he turned 21 the day I arrived. A few months later, on October 10, my mom turned 20. When I think about that now, at 56, I see it differently than I did when I was younger. She was barely more than a girl herself, learning about life, figuring things out and raising a daughter all at the same time.

She didn’t have decades of experience to draw from. She was building a life and a family while still becoming the woman she would one day be. I wonder what that felt like for her. What did she worry about? What did she dream about? What did she feel confident about, and what did she lie awake wondering if she was getting right?

I know those feelings because I’ve had them myself. I was only 23 when I became a mom to Danielle. I was growing up right alongside her, learning as I went and trying to do the best I could with what I knew at the time. I remember the responsibility, the constant juggling, the days that felt long and the years that somehow went by too quickly. I remember wondering if I was doing enough or getting it all right. And now I look back at my mom and realize she had her own version of those days.

A vintage family portrait from Angie’s family album, with two adults and three children. — A page from our family album.

She was just 37 when I graduated high school. At the time, I probably thought of her simply as Mom. The person who had always been there, the one who knew things. I didn’t spend much time imagining what it had been like for her to grow into that role. But she was young. She was a woman with her own hopes, worries, dreams and plans, learning to be a mother while life kept moving forward around her.

And when she was 43, she became a grandma. I was a mom by then, and our family was growing into another generation.

Now here I am, at 56, watching my own daughter raise her children. Hearing little Lorelei call out, “Watch me, Gigi!” Watching sweet baby Archie light up a room with his smile. And I find myself looking at all of us a little differently. My mom was once the young woman holding me. I was once the young mom holding Danielle. And now Danielle is the mom holding her babies.

Somehow, life has brought us all here. Three generations of women, each with our own story, each learning as we go and loving the little people who made us somebody’s mom.

A second vintage family portrait from Angie’s family album, with two adults and three children. — The years pass. We carry these versions of our family with us.

I wish I could go back and sit with my younger self for a few minutes. I would tell her that she doesn’t have to get everything right. That being exhausted doesn’t mean she’s failing. That the meals, the laundry, the routines, the hugs and the bedtime kisses are adding up to a life full of memories, even when it feels like she’s just trying to get through the day.

And I think I’d want to tell my mom those things, too. Not because I know she needed to hear them, but because I understand now what it means to be the one everyone looks to, even when you’re still figuring things out yourself.

I wish I could see some of those early years through her eyes. I wish I knew more about the young woman she was before I knew her simply as Mom. We grow up knowing our mothers as our mothers. We don’t always think about the girl they once were, the dreams they carried or the things they were still learning while they were busy raising us.

Maybe that’s one of the gifts of getting older. We begin to see our parents as people who were once young, too. People who made their way through life without knowing exactly how everything would turn out. People who did the best they could, just as we did.

Angie’s mother smiling behind a cake with 71 candles, holding a card and a keepsake. — Mom celebrating her 71st birthday—a favorite family memory.

This weekend, as we celebrate my mom turning 76, I know I’ll look at her with a little more understanding and a whole lot of gratitude. I’ll see the woman she is today, but I’ll also try to remember the 19-year-old girl who became my mom. The young woman who was growing up while raising me. The mother who watched me grow up, become a mom myself and eventually become Gigi.

And I hope she knows that no matter how old I get, how many birthdays I celebrate or how many little arms reach for me and call me Gigi, there is still a part of me that will always be her little girl.

Before I was somebody’s mom, I was her daughter. Before I was Gigi, I was her girl. At 56, I understand that part of myself a little more than I used to. We spend so much of our lives growing into new roles that we sometimes forget the old ones never really leave us.