When I was 17 I sat on a park bench with my friend, Marina and told her that I wanted to be a Mum. Not now, but one day. There was little I was sure of at that age, but I was sure of that. I was raised by a woman who loved being a Mum. I was raised by a woman who made being a Mum seem so fun. She wore paper party hats and black chiffon cocktail dresses and danced around the kitchen to Dire Straits. She took us half way across the world to ride horses and raft down whitewater rapids. She made our house a safe, colourful place where every stray teen felt at home. She was fun, she was brave, and she was a steady presence. She still is. Years later, I became a Mum and realized that it wasn’t just that I wanted to be a Mum, but that I wanted to be my Mum. As anyone with a larger than life image to live up to knows, this can be problematic for one’s ego. There’s no room for it to breath, let alone evolve. After much reflection, I’m now learning that the confidence, daring and joie du vivre that I felt in my Mum throughout my childhood was in part the result of a woman who didn’t compare herself, and didn’t bother too much with what others thought. She was herself, not a version she aspired to. It’s taken me a while to understand that to be my Mum means to be myself. And the more myself I become, the more I discover our differences, and how very alike we are.