Earlier this week I celebrated what would have been my mother's 79th birthday. She died much too soon at the age of 72. I celebrate her life this time of year, and always. But what I find to be increasingly true over time, is the fact that she is still much very alive in my life, and she continues to teach me. Because she is alive in me and in each of my four sisters, I cannot help but see her in my daily life -- in the good things, and the bad things. In the memories that make up my life and that made me who I am. In habits and funny French phrases and even the silly meals my sisters and I make.

When I was little, my parents split up. I was at that age where your parents are God, and my mother was my whole world, because she was my primary caretaker. I very much needed solid ground to walk on, but there was a constant shifting beneath my feet. Though I did not consciously know it at the time, my mother was depressed and dealing with severe anxiety. Looking back, I know I knew this in every cell of my being. Part of me wanted her to get over it, and to be my mom. And another part wanted to mother her, protect her. Instinctively I tried to extend to my mother what I myself most needed: comfort, love and protection.