Things Aren't Always What You Remember

Growing up, I was the awkward kid.
And the annoying kid.

I tried so hard to get people to like me that I often came on a little strong. Or a lot, honestly. I filled silence with words. I overshared. I worried constantly about upsetting people. And big groups - especially familiar ones - made my chest tight with anxiety.

For a long time, I thought that meant something was wrong with me.

I was a nerdy kid, too. Never fully comfortable in my own skin. Always wanting more - more confidence, more friends, more ease. It was hard to be content with who I was, because I was always measuring myself against people who seemed so effortlessly themselves.

People like Mama Nance.

Today, I went to a wake for some dear family friends. One of my mom’s best friends, Mama Nance (in the purple here), passed away last weekend. She was like a second mom to me - one of the Breakfast Club Mamas - and one of the first adults I ever knew who truly lived out loud.

She had a self-confidence that didn’t ask permission and didn’t apologize. She loved fiercely and without conditions. I admired that in her even as a kid, long before I had the words for it.

Mama Nance was one of those women who could light up a room, and that’s not an exaggeration. People loved her - absolutely loved her. She was funny. She was honest. She was a comedian. She swore at truckers on the highway. And her kids are just like her: outgoing, warm, friends with everyone they meet. Exactly what I wanted to be growing up.

At the wake, it felt like a grade school reunion. Mama Nance had four kids, and I was right in the middle of them in grade school. Sitting in the back with my mom’s best friends, so many familiar faces from our beloved St. Pat’s came through to pay their respects. There were hugs. There were tears.

And there was my anxiety.

In moments like this, my brain spirals: Do they remember how annoying I was? Do they still think I’m the weird kid? But with every big hug, every shared smile, every story retold, I was reminded that sometimes our worst enemy is ourselves.

We are often so afraid to live out loud - afraid people will judge us, make fun of us, or simply not like us. But for the second time in recent years, old friends have shown me that the awkward moments I replay in my head are long forgotten by everyone else. What people remember are the good things. We grow. We learn. We see each other for who they really are. We are not those awkward thirteen-year-olds anymore.

And maybe we never were.

We can live out loud, just like Mama Nance did - letting ourselves be seen, letting ourselves take up space.

I can still picture Mama Nance pursing her lips and rolling her eyes when she thought you were being ridiculous. No one loved louder or better than her. Her hugs, her laughter, and the way she cared so deeply will live on through her kids, her grandkids, and everyone lucky enough to have known her.

Moving forward, I hope I can let go of some of the fear and the hard memories, and make room for new ones. Mama Nance was a gem - one that made every other gem around her sparkle a little more. I am so grateful I got to know her.

And I know my mom was waiting for her in heaven, arms open, after 21 long years apart. Because I know from experience that even a month is a very long time to go without a Mama Nance hug.