My mom, my godmother and I were sitting at a coffee shop, after having enjoyed a morning hike. Both she and my godmother were going back and forth, telling stories of being home, and of growing up and then coming into the US as young adults. “Oh how times have changed” my godmother said. While listening to them take this trip down memory lane, I couldn’t help but think about their struggles, in Brazil, and their struggles here in the US, before and after having children, and then having to raise them as a single parent.

Growing up, my mother would always tell me stories. Stories that her mother would tell her, and stories that even her grandmother would tell her. Stories of childhood games, fear and bravery. My mother is a strong human being, with a loud voice. She is somebody you notice enter the room, and somebody you will never forget.

Being first generation born in this country, the experiences I have had, are immeasurable to the experiences my mother had. And I feel fortunate, to have been born and raised by her strength, her knowledge, and power.

Therefore I feel it is my obligation, to tell her story and spread her voice. Maybe someone else has endured her hardships, her scarifices, her love and can relate. I hope this story brings admiration, and tells the story of 1 woman, of color, an immigrant, and a mother.