A Sip of Flava: Quiet Strength

Today is my mommy’s birthday.

I went looking for her in old photos — and found her everywhere.

In memories. In habits. In the quiet life I now live.

My mother was a quiet woman.

Not invisible — just intentional.

She loved her husband deeply and was proud to be a minister’s wife. She knew when to step forward and support the role… and when to step back and let the moment pass without her presence. There was wisdom in that. Confidence too.

She loved being a mother.

Cooking. Baking. Keeping the house clean and peaceful.

Our home ran on rhythm — not rigidity — but routine mattered. Dinner had its time. Chores had their place. The house was always ready, not for company, but for comfort.

Mommy was an early riser.

Five a.m. meant coffee brewing, the house still asleep, and her settled into her cushy rocking recliner with a book or a puzzle. She liked being awake before the world arrived. That quiet belonged to her.

We didn’t talk a lot — not the way some mothers and daughters do — but I never questioned whether I was loved. Her love wasn’t loud. It was steady.

As she aged and my daddy stayed active in church and the community, I became her errand partner. She was the queen of bargain shopping — patient, focused, quietly triumphant when she found a deal.

Later in life, my daddy explained something that stayed with me:

He dealt with people all day, every day. My mommy made sure our home was his sanctuary. No drama. No chaos. Just peace.

My parents endured a lot as a young interracial couple. My mother’s mother did not accept us as her grandchildren because my father was Japanese. Instead of weakening them, it bonded them tighter. They chose each other — again and again.

When my mommy passed in 1999, my parents had been married fifty years. They still held hands. Still kissed when my daddy left for the day and when he came home. That was my first definition of love.

As a child, I wanted to be married and have children because my mommy showed me what love could look like.

Although my life didn’t mirror theirs, I understand her now more than ever.

I was a daddy’s girl my whole life — until he passed in 2016.

But today, I see the truth clearly:

I am my mother.

I embrace quiet.

I cherish my morning coffee.

I protect my home from outside noise and unnecessary drama.

I’ve stepped back from the world — not in fear, but in wisdom.

Peace lives here now.

Just the way she liked it.

Just the way I need it.

My mommy was the glue that held our family together.

And her legacy didn’t end when she left this world.

It wakes up with me.

It pours coffee at dawn.

It chooses stillness over chaos.

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Mommy.

Thank you for showing me that quiet strength is still strength.