I was reading the article, “US Launches Its 81st Airstrike in Somalia This Year” published October 6th. It mentioned the 3rd in passing—just a timestamp buried in a sentence about airstrikes. But it caught me off guard.

That’s when it hit me—the third marked the anniversary of my mother’s death. She was born on October 6th and died on October 3rd, just three days shy of what would have been her 51st birthday.

I’ve started writing a memoir to trace the shape of my childhood and its aftermath—to document what shaped me, what I survived, and what still flickers. I’ve finished one chapter. The next remains unwritten—figuratively and literally. I’m stuck, but I know why.

I was her “miracle baby”—born premature, not expected to survive. She had a stroke while pregnant with me. Doctors said I’d be stillborn. She was comatose for a time, relearning basic tasks during recovery. The stroke left her partially paralyzed on one side. Her mental health never fully returned.

In fact, I was baptized twice. First, in the hospital—emergency rite. Then again at the church, formal christening. I suppose surviving the odds predicted by the specialists made it feel miraculous enough that my mother decided to change my christened name—from Tina Marie to Christina Maria. 

But I’ve kept Tina Marie. Rebellious by nature, and by choice.

As for me—a neuro-ophthalmologist found a peripheral vision defect. It resembles macular sparing, but they still monitor me for macular degeneration. Aside from the loss of peripheral vision, I survived unscathed. The experience of exiting my mother, at least.

When it comes to our relationship, I won’t go into specifics. I’ve already rehashed the worst of it on my personal blog—trying to make sense of the past, tracing patterns, searching for the reasons behind certain reflexes, certain habits.

Even through the wreckage, she passed on my love of reading and music.

Slowly, I’m learning to see with more nuance—less of the old black-and-white reflex. Healing isn’t linear. The past matters, yes, but I don’t have to live inside it.

Still, some of the music pulls. Nostalgia, not surrender.

Soon, the biggest task in my healing will arrive. 

Will I be brave enough to face it—or will I succumb and surrender?

Will I finally be able to write the next chapter of my memoir?

—Tina Marie