I was on my way back to university in Lebanon after spending the Christmas break back home in Aleppo when my mother found texts from my girlfriend on my Syrian phone, which I had forgotten back home. I was terrified and denied everything; at 18 years old, I had not even accepted it myself that I am lesbian. I put on the straight good girl personality who fakes crushing on boys in high school for the longest time, never understanding why I could never do that. Few years and several visits home again, we never spoke about it. I dated women ever since, usually presenting them as my friends, always trying to avoid suspiciousness. As her only daughter, I felt bad for her then, I wished I was straight to please her, but that was impossible.

Fast forward to me at 32, suicidal and heartbroken over a woman who almost destroyed me. I was living in another city then and decided to return home. Devastated and never leaving the bed, my mother healed my heart. She knew everything, all those years. She knew exactly who my previous girlfriends were and never said a word. She listened to all my feelings, understood my pain, recognized it was real, and she validated my emotions. Today at 35, my mother and my long-term partner are best friends. They send each other stickers on WhatsApp, call each other, and love each other. It makes me feel like the luckiest woman in the world, being in Syria still and having all this love.

My mother constantly reminds me how the only thing that matters to her is seeing me happy, because life is too short to live miserably. My mother constantly reminds me how proud she is of me, and my mother constantly tells me that the love I have is so rare and so precious. Happy Mother’s Day, mama, and to all the mothers who have loved their children as they battle with their identities in societies that do not accept them.