Everyone Is a Teacher: Reflections on My Mother

There are moments in life that stay with us. A sentence, a look, an action — sometimes so small in the moment — can ripple through years, even decades. One such moment for me was when my mother once told me, “You should learn to lie.”

As a child, I couldn’t make sense of this. Deep inside, I already knew truth as something sacred, something that anchored me to who I really was.  To be told otherwise by the woman I looked up to, the one who gave me life, was both jarring and painful. I turned it over in my mind.  Why would she say this? Was I wrong to believe in truth? Was she right, and I naïve?

For years, I wrestled with these questions. Only later did I see that her words weren’t really about me. They were about her wound, her trauma, her survival strategy in a world that had often felt unsafe. Lying had been protection — her shield, her way of surviving — and in passing it on, she unwittingly gave me a profound lesson about the nature of truth, love, and compassion.

The Gift in the Wound

My mother was not deliberately steering me away from myself.  She was unconsciously passing on her pain, as so many parents do. And yet, within that wound, she offered one of the greatest teachings of my life, we are not our wounds, but our wounds can become our teachers.

Her words about lying planted a question in me — a question that became a compass.  It guided me deeper into myself, into my search for truth, and into the unshakable knowing that I could live another way.

Even those who wound us can become our teachers.  Sometimes, especially them.  Every person we meet, every relationship we carry, holds up a mirror.  Some mirrors show us love and acceptance.  Others show us pain and disconnection. 

Both are sacred.  Both are teachers.  Both lead us home.

My Mother’s Gifts

Beyond her struggles, my mother was gifted in so many ways.  She had an extraordinary eye for beauty — in art, music, design, clothes, gardens, and travel.  She could bring together pieces that others didn’t yet see belonged.  Her hands created, her mind imagined, and her heart held a love of life that inspired me.

Watching her face challenges like stroke and cancer was both heartbreaking and inspiring.  Even in suffering, she remained a force — resilient, determined, and courageous.  I could feel the depth of her humanity, the beauty and the pain intertwined.

It took me many years to see the full picture, her gifts, her wounds, and the echoes of her survival strategies.  This is the paradox of life — even those who wound us are mirrors showing us our path.

Healing Through Spirit

One of the greatest gifts of my journey has been working with my mother from spirit after her passing.  What I could not resolve with her in body, I have been able to work through in soul.  I finally felt the deep relief of recognising, I am not her.  I do not need to carry her pain as my own.  I can honour her story while stepping fully into mine.

Through this work, I met her with compassion and understanding I couldn’t always reach while she was alive.  I saw her as both my mother and my teacher — reflecting back my inner world, showing me my own messy, uncomfortable, and beautifully human places.

Compassion Through Understanding

Compassion blooms when we hold both truths at once, the wound and the love, the pain and the gift.  When I think of my mother now, I no longer see just the woman who told me lying was necessary.  I see the little girl inside her, the lessons she carried, and the courage it took to survive.  I hold gratitude for it all.

This doesn’t mean excusing harm or pretending things were different than they were.  It means widening the lens — seeing the story behind the behaviour, the wound behind the words.  And in that wider view, compassion arises.

A Gentle Practice: Pause – Breathe – Do You

In moments when old memories rise, when emotions feel tangled, I return to this simple practice:

✨ Pause – Stop for a moment. Notice what you are feeling. Notice the story that is trying to play out.

✨ Breathe – Slowly inhale and exhale. Let your breath remind you that you are here, safe, alive.

✨ Do You – Ask: What do I need right now? To rest? To cry? To write? To forgive? To simply feel? Honour that truth.

This practice has carried me through many reflections about my mother, helping me meet her memory with compassion instead of resistance.

Guided Prayer / Meditation for the Mother Line

If you feel called, close your eyes and place your hand gently over your heart.

💜 Breathe in light… breathe out softness.

💜 Call to mind your mother. See her as she is now, or as she was long ago. Beyond her face and words, imagine the little child she once was — full of innocence, longing to be loved and safe.

💜 Whisper silently: “I see you. I honour the paths you walked. I thank you for the teachings you gave me, both through love and through pain. I release what is not mine to carry. I carry forward only compassion and truth.”

💜 Now imagine her mother behind her, and her mother’s mother, stretching back through time. See them all, each with their own wounds and wisdom. Place your hand upon your heart and whisper: “I honour you. I free myself and I free you. I choose compassion.”

💜 Breathe deeply once more, and when ready, open your eyes, carrying this softening with you into your day.

Closing Reflection

My mother’s words once confused and wounded me. Today, they remind me that everyone is a teacher.  Some guide us by showing us the way, others teach us by showing us where not to go.  But all, in their own way, bring us closer to truth, compassion, and ourselves.

For that, I bow in gratitude.

With Love

Anna Oliva

Xxx