Jocelyne Rosales Reyes
If you were to ask me about my mother, I’d tell you she’s amazing, strong, patient, and deeply human. She’s not perfect, and I don’t want her to be. Her flaws are part of what makes her so real, so her.
Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see her. And in those moments, I’m reminded just how powerful her beauty is, inside and out. One of the things I admire most about her is that she understands me without me having to say a word. That kind of bond? I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
My mom spent most of her childhood and teen years in Mexico City. At 11, she moved out of her grandparents’ home, where she’d been living with her siblings, and into a small terreno her parents had just gotten in Colonia Chimalhuacán. Back then, the neighborhood was still developing. There weren’t many people around because most of the houses were still under construction. There was one tiny mercado, one run-down church, and no transportation. But right in front of her new home? Her school.
She went to school like any other kid, hanging out with the same five friends who, coincidentally, were the ones who helped her family move in. But when she was 12, she had to drop out due to financial struggles. Instead of attending class, she stayed home to take care of her siblings and help around the house.
Still, she holds onto her favorite memory from those years: a family trip to Cuautla, Morelos. Her best friend lived there, and they made the most of every visit, whether swimming in nearby pools or running around with other neighborhood kids. Those moments brought her joy and freedom.
By the time she was 15, my mom had started working at the local mercado, selling nopales and vegetables alongside her parents. She actually enjoyed the work, it gave her purpose and kept her busy.
Then, in 1997, everything changed. My grandma made the decision to cross the U.S. border, taking my mom (then just 16) and her siblings along. The hardest part for my mom was saying goodbye to the people she loved. She protested at first, not wanting to leave, but ultimately went, for the sake of her grandparents, who had always been her role models.
They headed for Minnesota, where my grandma’s sister lived in St. Paul. When they arrived, my mom saw snow for the first time. They stayed with her tía at first, and my mom picked up work babysitting and cleaning houses. After eight months, they moved into a small rental with her uncles.
Life in Minnesota wasn’t easy. My mom hadn’t wanted to come in the first place, and the language barrier only made things harder. She felt out of place. But through it all, she kept going. She held her head high and worked with what she had. That’s the kind of woman she is.
I love my mom. I love how patient she is, especially when it comes to me. I love the way she laughs, loud, genuine, not caring who hears. I love how she isn’t afraid to show who she is. Our relationship isn’t perfect, but honestly? I don’t want it to be. The imperfections give us space to grow, to learn from each other, to become stronger together.
My mom once told me that her biggest dream was to give us the opportunities she never had. That stayed with me, and it always will.
I am proud to be my mother’s daughter. Every day, I carry pieces of her with me. And every day, I hope to make her just as proud of me.
