Growing up means calling your mom first

At 16, I rolled my eyes. At 21, I text her everything.

Five years ago, I was convinced I had the world figured out. I was young, full of opinions, full of silence. I kept to myself, shut my door, answered questions with shrugs. I didn’t have the words for what I was feeling then, just a general restlessness, like I was trying to outgrow something too quickly. The easiest target was my mom. I was loud with my silence. And cruel with my distance.

I was raised by a single mother. She worked full-time but still woke up before sunrise to make my breakfast and pack my lunch. She brushed my hair while I shuffled around looking for the missing pair of my socks. Every morning, she told me she loved me. Most mornings, I didn’t say anything back. I was always in a rush. At the time, it felt normal. Now I wonder what I was in such a hurry to leave behind.

There were years when I barely let her in. We used to go on Jollibee dates. I’d talk for hours while she listened, like the smallest things I said mattered. I don’t know when that stopped. At some point, I just started answering with “basta” when she asked about my day. Maybe I thought being independent meant being distant. It was as if turning 16 made me forget how to be a daughter. I thought needing my mom meant I wasn’t growing up fast enough, and I was so desperate to prove that I could stand on my own.

Now I’m 21 and living in Manila, and I think about her more than I ever expected to. I make my own meals, do my own laundry, and go to class with bags under my eyes and a to-do list I never finish. And somehow, in this busy, messy version of adulthood, I find myself needing her more than ever. When I shuffle around my apartment looking for my socks, I think of her. When I’m sick and there’s no one to nag me to take medicine, I think of her. When I sit in silence after a long day, it’s her voice I want to hear.

We talk more now than we did then. I call her at night, send updates throughout the day that would’ve embarrassed my teenage self. I used to ask her if my clothes looked okay. Now she sends me pictures of hers and waits for my reply. She asks me about my exams, my friends, the people I mention in passing. I tell her about my deadlines, the professors I find difficult, the overpriced coffee I still buy anyway. It’s quiet, this new rhythm. But I’ve learned that love doesn’t have to be loud to be real.

Sometimes I look back on those years when I shut her out and wonder if she ever felt like she was losing me. If she noticed the way I started walking a little faster, speaking a little less. She never said anything. She just kept showing up. Every morning, every evening, every time I forgot to be soft. She waited patiently at the edges of my life, never forcing her way in, just leaving the door open.

It’s a quiet kind of love we’ve grown into. Less dependent, more deliberate. There’s a quiet tenderness in our relationship now, one that was hard to find in the noise of my teenage rebellion. It’s found in the way I now check in with her, the way I mirror her habits without meaning to, the way I try to care for her the way she’s always cared for me. I think this is what growing up really is. Not breaking away from your parents, but finding your way back to them with a fuller heart.

Tomorrow, I’ll take the first bus back to Bataan. In my bag will be a Burger King Whopper for my mom, wrapped up carefully so it doesn’t get soggy. I know she’ll act like it’s nothing special, maybe even scold me for spending too much, but I also know she’ll eat it happily. That’s how my mom is. She receives love the same way she gives it: fully, quietly, without making a big show.

We’ll sit across from each other like we used to, two people who’ve grown in different directions but still somehow toward each other. I’ll tell her about school, the traffic, the strange dream I had last week. She’ll tell me the cat’s been acting weird again, that the neighbor’s bike keeps blocking our driveway, that she learned new recipes from TikTok. She might even cook one of them while I’m home, letting me hover near the stove like I used to as a kid, sneaking bites before dinner was ready.

Maybe we’ll laugh at nothing. Maybe we’ll argue a little over how much I spend on delivery. Maybe we’ll sit in comfortable silence while watching TV. And in that quiet, ordinary moment, I’ll realize this is what it means to come home. Not just to a place, but to a person who never stopped waiting for you to return, even when you didn’t know you left.

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Bea Francine Isuga, 21, is a third-year student at De La Salle University Manila.

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