0212-2025
Honoring her, the ‘Ultimate Warrior’
by Jeannie Tyrrell
I think about my mother everyday - and I want you to know that I labeled her the Ultimate Warrior years ago for a number of reasons.
One reason relates to the way she moved through her life like she was constantly fighting an invisible war.
Regardless of that, her spirit never dimmed; even when the world did its best to break her.
My mother was defiant till the end, and she lived a million lives.
She carried herself like a woman who’d already seen it all. She was strong, resilient, and sick of this tired-ass joke of a world.
It brings me comfort to know that she was sick of this joke system in general, like me.
Still, despite being drawn in and depleted by this joke of a healthcare system, she made space for joy.
She was truly present where she was, and she already told me a while ago that it was the end of her trail.
I’d like to think she’d already made peace with what was coming, even if the world hadn’t made peace with her.
My mother was a survivor in every sense of the word. She survived domestic violence at the hands of my stepfather, a man so cruel he nearly killed her.
He broke bones in her beautiful face, nearly took her beautiful life, and went to prison for it.
But, her spirit was never broken. She kept moving forward, doing her best with what little the world gave her.
My mother didn’t let the violence define her, even though I know it left scars that no one could see.
Our connection was complex, and tangled in the weight of both of our unprocessed trauma.
She carried wounds she never got to heal from, and in many ways, so do I.
She told me once that she felt unwanted and misunderstood, and back then, I didn’t know how to hold that truth for her.
But now, as an adult, I see it clearly.
She was cast out, treated like she was a problem, and often used as the scapegoat so others could feel superior.
She carried pain that was never hers to hold, but she held it anyway because that’s what survivors do.
That’s what she was, a survivor, the ultimate warrior, even when no one gave her credit for it.
One of my most cherished memories is the time we sat down at her dining room table and wrote something together.
We started putting words to paper, trying to capture the complexity of our bond.
It was raw, unfiltered, and honest in a way that only we could understand.
In that moment, we weren’t just mother and daughter; we were two people, two souls, weaving our shared story into something beautiful and real.
I didn’t know it then, but that moment would become a keepsake for me, and something I carry with me now that she’s gone.
I’m so proud of her, for forever remaining authentic, proud of her name, and never taking any shit.
My mother never shrank herself to fit into places that didn’t deserve her.
She never let the world convince her she was small either, even when it tried.
If it wasn’t for her unprocessed trauma and economic issues, I truly think she would have ruled this joke of a world.
But even without a throne, she was royalty to me.
The world may not have given her the recognition she deserved, but I saw her. I always will.
And now, I choose to turn her death into an opportunity for me to forgive. I choose to forgive those who treated her like she was a problem.
I forgive the people who chose to compete with her trauma for attention, and I forgive my mother for the trauma she caused as a result.
But most importantly, I refuse to become bitter.
I don’t want to be bitter towards those who have it easy, or towards those who were unable to accept my mother for who she was.
Resentment is too heavy a burden, and I’ve seen what it can do to a person.
I want to be free and I want to live with an open heart, even when the world has given me every reason to close it.
