Dear Ivy

In 1997, I was born on a stormy Friday the 13th to my mother, Ivy, short for Yvelisse. She taught me how to read and write at three years old, constantly encouraging me to ask questions and seek answers. A child with an insatiable curiosity, I absorbed every bit of knowledge that she offered me, sometimes filing it away for a time where I would later understand it. Most of my early childhood memories are comprised of my mom and I, coloring, playing computer games, reading, writing, and having morning tea over her intricate Japanese tea set. I began to develop a deep appreciation for quality time with the people I love, the budding of an expectation for quality conversations and good company.

In 2002, I began school during a tumultuous time in my parents' marriage. They often argued, occasionally to a degree where the police were called by concerned neighbors eavesdropping on the heated conversations. Children are much more observant than we give them credit for, so I know now that my mom really was trying her best to shield me from her deteriorating relationship with my dad. The love she showed me brightened the darkest corners in my mind and things were okay even when they were not. She also stressed to me that all people are equal, and even if you do not agree with someone, it is important to still hold respect for them. To be a good person, it was pertinent to understand that every life has inherent value and to treat others as you wish to be treated.

In 2008, when I was in sixth grade, our family home burned in a freak electrical fire following the crash of the economy the year before. Tragic events followed tragic events, but my mom kept her head held high through it all. She had chronic back pain and related medical issues that debilitated her everyday life. Nevertheless, she put in effort to do what was necessary and showed up for our family regardless. Her tenacity was impressive, even with her crippling health problems. She was my rock, and I am extremely grateful to have had her by my side through the worst moments. The perseverance she showed during such a chaotic time has continued to influence me.

In 2012, my mom passed away unexpectedly from medical complications involving past surgeries and medications. My entire world shattered, and the screen went black for a little while.

Every lesson involving strength, love, and perseverance that she had taught me throughout my life up to then, was suddenly and ferociously put to the test. There was a moment during my childhood when my mom and I were discussing a serious hypothetical situation in which she died. We occasionally did exercises like this, as my mom wanted to see how I would react to different situations, should I ever be presented with them. I told her I would just kill myself—not even knowing the word “suicide” yet—and she made me promise at that moment that I would never do that. Not thinking the promise would ever be challenged, after a pause, I agreed.

In 2021, almost a decade after her passing, I am still here. Not only am I still here, but I am thriving. It took many years of inner work, self-reflection, confronting my trauma, and remembering all the life lessons that my mom had taught me over the years that somehow became more and more relevant as I grew into adulthood. I earned my BA in Psychology, studying the mind for four years so I could better understand the scientific side of my trauma and to gain the tools to help others in whatever specific psychology field I chose to pursue. Every accomplishment I make, I know she is standing right beside me, cheering me on louder than anyone else in the room. And just for that, I keep moving forward with the intention of following my dreams and helping people follow theirs, too. I know she is proud of me, even now, as I write this dedicated essay to her.

Yvelisse was such a gentle soul and a wise spirit who was taken entirely too soon. I always wondered why the universe would do such a thing to her, and to everyone who cared about her. Then I remember how many lives she had touched with her charismatic personality, her sage advice, and her loving presence. And I remember that against all odds, on Friday the 13th, I was born to a wonderful woman who was told for years that she was not able to have children at all. She had told me a few times that she was meant to be a mother, and that I was meant to be her only child. Her purpose was fulfilled, so she was taken home, to an unknown paradise.

The effect that her loss had on my life felt like a huge boulder being dropped unceremoniously into a still lake. The first waves of emotion and trauma that erupted were formidable and entirely overwhelming—to the point where I blacked out the entirety of my sophomore year of high school after losing her—and the ensuing ripples continued to form and spread for a long, long time after.

Finally, after nine years, the lake in my mind is still again. Or better yet, stirring healthily with abundant life. Stirring with hope, gifted to me years ago from my mother. On that lake, by a cozy forest, there is an ivy-covered cabin where a fireplace is crackling, and homemade plantains are frying in the kitchen. I am not allowed to go there yet, but its presence is ever-comforting, and even though I am enjoying my time on the water, I cannot wait to see what it is like inside. Because Mom is there, waiting patiently for me to arrive once I have fulfilled my purpose, too.