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My mother was right about the white noise machine. I thought it was ridiculous. A box that makes static? To help you sleep? Like a fan that doesn’t move air? I mocked it. Gently. I was in my forties. She was in her seventies. I thought I knew better. I didn’t.<\/p>\n
She’d been using it for years. Said it drowned out the thoughts. Said it helped her sleep through the night. Said it was the best money she ever spent. I nodded the way you nod when your mother tells you something you’re not going to do.<\/p>\n
Then I hit my fifties and sleep became a negotiation. I’d lie there at three in the morning, my brain spinning on things I couldn’t change, couldn’t solve, couldn’t stop thinking about. I tried everything. Then I remembered the white noise machine. I bought one out of desperation. The same one she had. The same ridiculous box of static.<\/p>\n
It worked. The first night. My brain stopped spinning. The static gave it something to hold onto. Something neutral. Something that wasn’t the endless loop of worry. I slept through the night. I’ve used it every night since. I called her the next week. “You were right.” She didn’t say “I told you so.” She just said “I know.”<\/p>\n
That was one. There have been twelve more since then. Things she told me. Things I ignored. Things I had to learn the hard way. Things she knew all along.<\/p>\n
I covered that. She was right. I was wrong. The static works. Your brain needs something to hold onto at three in the morning. White noise is better than worry.<\/p>\n
2. Go to bed at the same time every night. She told me this for years. I had a schedule for everything except sleep. I’d stay up late. Sleep in. Vary my bedtime by hours. She said the body needs rhythm. She said you can’t cheat sleep. I thought I was special. I wasn’t. I started going to bed at the same time. I wake up at the same time. My sleep is better. I don’t know why I thought I was the exception.<\/p>\n
She always had a glass of water. Everywhere. In the car. In her bag. On her nightstand. I thought it was excessive. I drank when I was thirsty. That’s what thirst is for, right? She said if you’re thirsty, you’re already dehydrated. She was right. I learned that the hard way. Now I carry water. I drink it before I need it. I don’t get the afternoon headaches anymore.<\/p>\n
She was always on me about my shoes. Good shoes. Supportive shoes. Not the cheap ones. Not the ones that look cool. The ones that support your feet. I ignored her. My feet hurt. My knees hurt. My back hurt. I thought that was just aging. I got good shoes. The pain didn’t disappear, but it got quieter. She was right. Your feet hold you up. You don’t skimp on the foundation.<\/p>\n
She stayed active. Not gym active. Life active. She gardened. Walked. Cleaned her own house. Didn’t hire people to do things she could do herself. I thought she was being stubborn. She was being smart. She kept moving because she wanted to keep moving. I stopped moving. I started aching. I started moving again. The aching didn’t go away but it stopped getting worse. She was right.<\/p>\n
She said this constantly. If someone has spinach in their teeth, tell them. If their shirt is tucked into their underwear, tell them. Anything else? Keep it to yourself. I used to think she was being overly cautious. Now I know. Your opinion about someone’s weight, their hair, their clothes, their face? Keep it. They didn’t ask. It’s not helpful. She was right.<\/p>\n
She said this so often it became background noise. I thought it was a greeting card sentiment. It’s not. It’s the truth. I spent years trying to please people who were never going to be pleased. Years trying to impress people whose opinions didn’t matter. She was right. The people who love you love you. The people who don’t? They don’t matter.<\/p>\n
She was a caretaker. Her whole life. But she also took care of herself. Not in a showy way. In a practical way. She rested when she was tired. She said no when she needed to. She didn’t wait until she was exhausted to stop. I thought she was being selfish. She was being smart. I spent years running myself into the ground. Helping everyone. Saying yes to everything. Burning out. Then I had nothing to give. She was right. You have to fill yourself first. Otherwise you’re giving from emptiness.<\/p>\n
She said this whenever I was spinning on something. I thought she was minimizing. She was stating a fact. I kept a worry journal for a month. Everything I was worried about. I checked back at the end of the month. Ninety percent of it never happened. Of the ten percent that did, none of it was as bad as I feared. She was right. Worry is a waste. A complete waste. I still worry. But I know now that it’s not prediction. It’s just noise.<\/p>\n
She listened to her body. If she was tired, she rested. If something hurt, she stopped. If she needed to eat, she ate. She didn’t power through. She didn’t push. I thought she was being weak. I thought pushing through was strength. Now I know. Your body is not negotiating. It’s telling you. Ignoring it doesn’t make it go away. It makes it louder. She was right. Listen the first time.<\/p>\n
I spent decades worried about what people thought. What they’d say. What they’d judge. She said they’re not thinking about you. They’re thinking about themselves. I didn’t believe her. Now I know. Everyone is the main character of their own story. You’re a supporting character at best. Most people don’t notice what you’re wearing, what you said, what you did. They’re too busy worrying about themselves. She was right. The freedom in that is enormous.<\/p>\n
She did this every time. Every call ended with “I love you.” Even when we were arguing. Even when I was being difficult. Even when she was tired. I thought it was automatic. A habit without meaning. Then she died. And I had all those calls. All those “I love you”s. They weren’t automatic. They were deposits. She was making sure that when she was gone, I’d have a bank full of them. I do. She was right.<\/p>\n
The last one. The one she said when things were hard. When I was struggling. When I thought I couldn’t get through something. I thought it was dismissive. It wasn’t. It was perspective. Everything passes. The good and the bad. The hard times end. The good times end too. Nothing is permanent. That’s not depressing. That’s freeing. The hard thing you’re going through? It will end. The good thing you’re afraid of losing? It will end too. Enjoy it while it’s here. Let it go when it’s not. She was right.<\/p>\n
The one I wish I’d listened to sooner.<\/p>\n
All of them. But especially the last one. I spent so much time believing the hard things would last forever. They didn’t. I spent so much time clinging to the good things like I could keep them from changing. I couldn’t. She knew that. She tried to tell me. I wasn’t ready to hear it. I’m ready now.<\/p>\n
My mother was right about a lot of things. I wish I’d listened sooner. But I’m listening now. That’s something. That’s not nothing.<\/p>\n
I still use the white noise machine. Every night. I think of her when I turn it on. The static fills the room. My brain settles. I sleep. In the morning, I wake up. I drink water before I’m thirsty. I put on good shoes. I say I love you before I hang up the phone. I try to remember that most of what I worry about never happens. I try to remember that this too shall pass.<\/p>\n
She was right. She was right about all of it. I just had to get old enough to admit it.<\/p>\n
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