Loving My Mother by Stepping Into Her Closet: 'Addiction Was Part of Her, but She Was Much More Than That' (Exclusive)

Upon the release of her new book, 'A Home for the Holidays' author Taylor Hahn reflects on her relationship with her late mother

On the day of my mom’s celebration of life — we didn’t have a funeral, she would have hated that — I stood in front of her bathroom mirror and stared at myself wearing her dress. My mom had a closet full of wild clothes from the ‘80s and ‘90s: a hot pink bolero with angular shoulders like Judy Jetson, a red miniskirt painted with black lips, a black sequined dress with an explosion of yellow ruffles around the neckline like a fabulous bee.

For her celebration, my cousin suggested we wear them as a tribute. Seeing us wear her clothes would have made my mom ecstatic. She’d have wanted us to commemorate that she was the life of the party — in this case, her going-away party — instead of somberly saying goodbye in black.

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The dress I’d chosen was emerald green velvet with a silk flower on the shoulder, and it fit me perfectly. Still, I almost took it off as tears streamed down my face. Wearing her dress, I felt like a fraud for pretending my grief was uncomplicated.

My mom had an alcohol addiction, and I was angry with her because of it. I wanted her to stop drinking and start being honest, and also to start eating and sleeping and exercising and maybe drink the occasional green juice, as if it were that easy or simple. As her health worsened, I only grew more frustrated. Alcohol had become her defining characteristic. I couldn’t see past it. When she died, I thought I would never forgive her. I felt like she’d chosen alcohol over me.

Now I was standing in front of the mirror, confronted with a truth that, because of my angry tunnel-vision, I’d missed: that my mom was brave, and vivacious, and not afraid to stand out. She’d even designed most of these clothes herself, a talent I’d never appreciated. I’d been so focused on the ways she’d let me down that I’d offered her no compassion. Isn’t that what we do to our mothers? Tally up the ways they’ve disappointed us? Our mothers are our easiest targets.

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As a kid, I noticed the ways my mom was different from other moms. She was divorced; most of my friends’ parents were still married. She wore red lipstick and heavy strings of fake pearls to drop me off at school; other moms seemed to have a closet full of capri pants. She worked long hours running a non-profit; other moms stuck around at birthday parties to chat in the kitchen. She filled our house with baroque antiques; my friends’ homes were cluttered and kid-friendly.

I desperately wanted to be the same as everybody else, and in clinging to that wish, I ignored the ways in which my mom had stayed true to herself, even in motherhood. Is it possible for daughters to ever truly know their mothers if we only view them through the lens of our own lives?

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Wearing her dress, I realized I didn’t want to remember her by the disease that defined her death, but need not define her life. I wanted to remember her by her closet. Addiction was part of her, but she was also so much more than that. Who was the woman who wore that pink bolero? Those yellow ruffles? And how amazing was it that I had a mom who was different from other moms?

Six weeks after she died, I became pregnant for the first time through IVF. When my daughter was born, I grew obsessed with wanting her to know me–really know me–even if I died tomorrow. I made her an email address and wrote to her from the raw, terror-filled days of early motherhood. When I had a miscarriage a few months after her first birthday, I wrote to her about the physical and emotional pain so she’d feel less alone if it happened to her someday. I imagine her reading A Home for the Holidays, the novel I wrote to heal my grief, and I keep a notebook by my bed where I try to put into words how much I love her, though it’s impossible. The magnitude of feeling defies language.

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But I’ve realized that no matter how hard I try to make myself known, it will be up to my daughter to put in the work. We owe this to our mothers, don’t we? They were women first, and mothers second. I am only beginning to repay my mom by getting to know her, by offering her the empathy she deserves. Just because she is gone doesn’t mean my work is done. She left the evidence of her life behind, waiting to be examined–all I need to do is step into her closet.

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A Home for the Holidays by Taylor Hahn is available now, wherever books are sold.

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