This is part 2 in a mini series about cohabitation and community. Part 1 is here.
I’m 39, I live with my mom and I love it. Sometimes I feel self-conscious when people ask me where I’m living, after moving out of Brooklyn following a breakup, and I’ll add qualifiers to my answer like “well - my base is my mom’s house, but I travel a lot” but the truth is I love living with her. This is not a financial decision for me, nor is it a caretaking decision for her, which I say only to underscore that I am here by choice, not necessity.
When I moved in with her, she had been living alone for fifteen years, following the death of my father. My parents’ love story had always been a central theme in our household and was repeated constantly at the dinner table, but it took on mythological status after his death. When they met, he was in his twenties, pursuing an architecture degree at Carnegie Mellon. She was in her late thirties, about to be divorced with two children. On the surface, the match seemed improbable for a long term life together, but he was unwavering in his assuredness that she was his person. In those early years; there were numerous obstacles to overcome and a long period of disconnection while she completed her divorce, making the eventual commitment to each other all the more romantic.
When I was 24, we lost him suddenly; he drove me to work on what would be the final day of his life and I never saw him again. The hole that the grief occupied after that swelled to eclipse anything else; it was suffocating in its hugeness; I thought it would swallow me whole. His love had always gotten more of the spoken attention; it seemed so rare and special to have a man in our lives who openly loved love the way he did. He used to bring home champagne on a particular day every August, and I couldn’t figure out why for the longest time because they had gotten married in November. I realized when I got older, he was celebrating the day I was conceived. While his love was crystallized in the spotlight, like a fossil embedded in amber, it was my mom’s love that was quietly relentless. It’s her love that put me back together in those painful years after his loss.
I was extremely sensitive as a child; outwardly shy but inwardly exploding with big feelings. My mom always seemed to understand what was going on beneath whatever behavior I was exhibiting. I believe in soulmates (plural) because I know she’s one of mine; there’s no one else who could have parented me like she has.
It has become family lore that I was a difficult child; I refused to sleep, refused to eat anything that wasn’t a beige carb and refused to share anything with anyone. There’s a story my mom loves to tell, that will tell you most everything you need to know about both of us and our dynamic together. When I was 6 years old, I was being particularly mean to any children who came over to play; hoarding all the toys for myself. My mom is gifted in emotional intelligence, in ways that now seem obvious to my generation that has therapized everything. Today, everyone seems to have a deep understanding of their traumas, their attachment style and the boundaries they should be setting, but my mom intuitively understood these things far before it was mainstream and continues to astound me with how clearly she understands the underlying dynamics of a situation. So - she was walking me to the school bus after a playdate the previous day, during which my lack of sharing had made my playmate cry, when she asked me -
“Sara - I think you like to be in charge, don’t you?”
and my eyes lit up and I said,
“Yea!”
and she said: “In fact, I’ll bet you’d like to be the boss of the whole world, wouldn’t you?”
My eyes got huge with excitement
and I said “YEA! Is there a special school you go to for that??”
and she said, “Sweetie, if you want to be the boss of the whole world, you have to be nice or there will be no one to boss. Everyone will leave and you won’t be the boss of anything.” She claims I started sharing after that.
She still anticipates my needs today; before I travel she will bake bread from scratch and cook portable meals, packing each item in a separate compostable container. And then she’ll turn to me and ask “what else can I do for you?” As if there’s more to be done than cooking an entire organic feast so that I won’t have to buy any food in the airport. I’m almost 40 and I still open little packs of carrots that my mom has packed me.
Lest you think from this anecdote that she’s a demure homemaker - the other morning I came downstairs at 7 am to get my iced coffee and she immediately launched into a diatribe with no warmup or explanation -
“The worst kind of sexism is the kind you cannot see! It’s the erasure of women! It’s insidious!”
This had been set off by her completion of Michael Pollan’s latest book on consciousness only to realize that he hadn’t quoted or referenced a single female researcher that she knew to be doing incredible work in the field. Although I wouldn’t have had this language for it when I was younger - she has always embodied the dichotomy of the feminine; fierce strength paired with deeply maternal love. A feminist who cooked dinner for her family every night.
Now, in this phase of cohabitation as adults, we spend our days somewhat separately; I’m usually upstairs working and taking calls. She’s downstairs in her artist’s studio, creating magical things. More than anyone I’ve ever encountered she seems to channel God energy; she is struck with ideas that have to be brought forward and she’s prolific in their creation. In part of her studio there are rows and rows of binders, each one filled with neatly organized quotes, ideas, thoughts, images, clippings. Wandering through her studio is like being in the film “A Beautiful Mind”; maybe in the presence of madness, maybe in the presence of genius. Maybe some of both, but utterly fascinating regardless. It gives me the sense that I’m glimpsing a spiritual realm that I don’t entirely have access to; one that she slips back and forth between with ease.
We meet at the end of each day and take turns cooking dinner for each other, always from scratch - as I’ve learned from her - with ingredients from the local farmer’s market.
Sometimes when I’m looking for actionable guidance from her, she declines to tell me what to do, instead responding in Buddha-like meditative phrases. I texted her for advice on a particularly painful romantic situation and she wrote back with simply “It is a gift to love and be loved.”
Very rarely, she has had enough of whatever situation I’m trying to analyze and she simply won’t entertain it anymore. And when that happens it looks like this:
She is whimsical and has the most endearing childlike wonder at certain things. There is a ladybug that has been living in the house with us all winter. We’ve named her Hazel and we leave pieces of banana out for her to eat. Whenever one of us sees her we send photos or updates. “Hazel’s in the kitchen.” “Hazel’s eating her banana.”
She introduced me to this quote:
“People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.” — Iris Murdoch
And it’s often how I think about her; mad with joy and in awe of the world.
Her love for the world leaves her endlessly exhausted by its cruelty. She has told me on numerous occasions that she couldn’t sleep because she couldn’t figure out how to solve the war in Ukraine, as if it rested squarely on her shoulders.
I count it among my many blessings that I won the maternal lottery with her. Living inter-generationally is certainly not for everyone; but I hate to think that other people would miss out on a period of time like this with their parents because of how uniquely individualistic we are in the United States. Only 18% of the population in this country live in multi-generational households, compared to 38% globally. I was surprised, and heartened, to learn that that percentage has actually been increasing since the 1970s, when it was 7%. (source).
I had seen my mom constantly throughout the years that I did live on my own in New York City, but I didn’t appreciate, until I was here everyday, that even though she has an active social life, there’s a different type of loneliness that comes from moving through the day to day household tasks by yourself. Deciding what to eat for dinner each night. Figuring out why the Netflix account just refuses to work in the TV room. Having a companion for horrifying tasks like setting mouse traps and disposing of them after the trap has been successful.
If your parents are in their 60s when you leave the house around age 18, as my mom was, and you assume they’ll live to be 90 (hopefully longer), and you also assume you’ll see them about 5 times a year, for 2 days each time, you’ve already spent 93% of your in-person time with them when you leave for college. (there’s a great visualization of this here.) How heartbreaking to spend all of that time raising a child and not enjoy the fruits of your labor for longer periods of time, together as adults.
To my roommate - I love you. Happy Mother’s Day.
To everyone who puts forth maternal energy; you make the world go round. Thank you.
Content Consumption
I’m reading Jim Collins latest book (the author of Good to Great). He has analyzed the lives of famous people across every industry to break down what makes a fulfilling life. He argues that we are all encoded to be uniquely excellent at something and when we find that thing, our life will feel “in frame.” He describes the inevitable periods of fog (a time of confusion, lack of clarity) that show up at various points in a lifetime. I feel like I’ve been in a prolonged fog, so I find that part particular resonant.
In Case You Missed It
Why Ibiza is the geographic representation of vitality, eroticism, life force energy.
A conversation with Dr. Eva Yacobi about why so many women feel emotionally flat
My personal healing journey with Jen Gnisci. We discuss how she works with women who are scared they won’t find partnership or have a child.
An analysis of the underlying cause of the manosphere.
A step by step exercise to finding your purpose, what energizes you, qualities to look for in a partner and qualities to cultivate in yourself for partnership
My wish for all of you on Valentine’s Day was more pleasure digestion and the discovery of your erotic blueprint.
If you have thoughts on this topic, or anything dating & relationship related, I would love to hear them! You can submit anonymously here.
You can also reply to this email or DM me on the Substack app; I’d love to hear what’s on your mind.
Eric forwarded this to me. It's beautiful, Sara. It's who I'm afraid I wasn't to my parents; it's who I work hard to be to my son.
I cried, I laughed. Can I move in?! 😭😂😍 Your writing is moving, Sara. You and mom are magic in human form 🫶🏻