My mother is not an easy woman to write about. When I told her I needed to write a short bio about her for this and asked how she’d describe herself, she said, “About me? I have no idea! Highly strung?”, which I think sums her up the best.

My mother gave up her life to raise me at 18. She’s always worked hard to give me the best life possible, and she’s taught me some of the best lessons I could have ever learned. She’s always there to reassure me that being called a bitch is a compliment; that most people don’t want to see you succeed so you should, even if it’s just to spite them; and that there are more important things in life than the person who broke my heart.

She’s proud, she’s hard-faced, and she’s unapologetically herself. That’s my mother.

My mother

My mother is the jingling of keys on a Sunday afternoon.
She is the smell of cold air on a winter morning.
She is hair mousse, solid and still against ringlets.

When the boy breaks my heart, my mother is, "well I never liked him anyway"
When the rejection letters fall in, she is, "you'll find something better"
When the bully targets, she is, "give me his number, I'll ring him"

My mother raised me to be tough,
Keyrings jammed through my fingers,
Hairspray in my bag, ready to fight back.

She raised me to be kind,
Buying presents for the party I didn't want to go to,
To be an open heart for the lost causes nobody else wants.

But she raised me to fight.
To know my worth.
To take no shit.

So now, when they come for me,
When they call me a bitch,
I think, just wait - until you meet my mother.

- Lucie Lewis