3 lessons I’ve learned from my mother
There is only one Vicky Zubiri. When God made her, they broke the mold. She is the ultimate glamazon, with never a hair out of place. My childhood was basically me gagging in the back of the car or in the bathroom as she furiously sprayed her hair with Elnett. My mother was 40 when she had me, and as the youngest of five children by 13 years from my sister before me and 21 years from my eldest brother, I was quite literally her baby doll. She made me miniature versions of her Dynasty-style clothes, brought me along to every concert, museum, play and exhibit, and gave me sneaky sips of champagne at fancy restaurants.
I credit my mother for everything that is cultured and refined about me. An avid adventurer, she’s traveled all over the world and I was so fortunate to accompany her. At 10 she took me to a Vivaldi concert in Venice in a beautiful old church where he used to play. At 13, we traversed Eastern Europe in a bus full of octogenarians. After making it to Russia we decided to leave everyone and fly back to Amsterdam to pick up a crazy pair of platform shoes we had seen in a shop. Later that year I saw Turandot in the Summer Palace in Beijing under a full moon. She is happiest discovering new places and would often go on trips alone just to explore. I don’t have many regrets in my life, but now I regret every trip I did not take with her.
She’s not perfect, no one is, but she’s always been my greatest teacher. Even through the times we’ve butted heads and all the moments she’s told me “Don’t do what I did,” my mother is the source of much wisdom in my life.
A big part of my journey is unpacking and analyzing my mother’s voice in my head, even as I’m going through my own individuation process, trying to find my own wisdom, my own path and building my own belief systems while still honoring the importance she has in my life. And much like many women who catch themselves saying, “Oh my gosh, I sound like my mother”—I have come to loving terms with embracing some of the lessons she’s imparted to me.
‘I’m a survivor,’ Vicky Zubiri often declares proudly. She is the epitome of Gloria Gaynor’s disco pop hit, one can imagine her in gold lame, with Diana Ross hair, smokey-eyed and lips painted red, dancing triumphantly over every struggle, challenge, trauma and pain she’s been through.
You are Miss Universe.
“When you walk into a room, you must tell yourself: I’m Miss. Universe.” The words echo through my mind like the lingering phrase of a commercial jingle or a fragment of a pop song whose essence you haven’t quite grasped. It’s catchy. It’s fun. It’s encouraging and positive. But I’ve always found it ridiculously superficial. What does that even mean? Why the pageantry?
While I still have mixed feelings about this, I have come to realize that it’s not her mantra, it’s her battle cry. “I’m a survivor,” my mom often declares proudly. She is the epitome of Gloria Gaynor’s disco pop hit—one can imagine her in gold lamé, with Diana Ross hair, smokey eyed and lips painted red, dancing triumphantly over every struggle, challenge, trauma and pain she’s been through.
From surviving two brain surgeries, a bout with cancer among other medical operations, and more significantly, living a very colorful life, my mother is courageous and brave and does it all so glamorously.
Just a few months ago, she gave us a terrible scare. We thought she needed a tricky heart procedure, which necessitated flying to Singapore. In classic Vicky Zubiri fashion, she handed over her lip balm to the nurse as she was being wheeled into the operating room and said, “Please make sure my lips are not dry.” I laughed. This was not her first time doing this; she did it right before her last brain surgery. My mother, so consistently Vicky.
Lipstick is her war paint, the clothing her armor. Carefully and deliberately chosen and applied, nothing is haphazard or an afterthought. Each layer is a form of expression, a kind of polish, if you will, until the sheen is shiny and bright. Despite the fragments of a storied life full of challenges, she sparkles and dazzles like a disco ball in the middle of a dance floor.
My mother has practiced self-care before that was even a word. That tending to yourself can help you feel good no matter the situation. Yes, she is Miss Universe, and not because she wears a crown, but because she is a supernova of a soul.
Family dinners are sacred.
They are loud, chaotic and crazy. We are five children, each with a partner plus and a total of 12 grandchildren, who now also have partners. All in all, if we are complete, we are about 26, but on any given Sunday we are at least 12. Growing up, no matter how old we were, or what we were doing, you could not skip a Sunday dinner. Once in a blue moon you could be excused; however, it was severely frowned upon if you skipped a few Sundays in a row. You’d get a call from my mother who would expertly guilt trip you into coming.
When I studied in Paris, they would call me on Sunday mornings as they were all together for dinner. There were no real conversations, mostly “Hi, Steph!” “We miss you!!” Tears would stream down my face and it was the only time during the whole week I would get homesick.
Although most of the time it’s enjoyable, I have to admit that sometimes this mandatory togetherness can get tedious. I’ve found myself tired at the end of a long week and would like nothing more than to just curl up in my pajamas and cuddle with my kids in front of a movie eating pizza. But on these days, I do my best to pull myself together and go because I’ve truly learned to see the value in it.
My siblings and I all live very different and dynamic lives, and to be honest it’s so easy to allow time to pass by and not catch up. Because, at the back of our minds, we know they’re just a phone call away, so there’s this tendency to take for granted the importance of making an effort to connect. My mother carries that responsibility so we don’t have to.
In my almost 40 years of life, I’ve seen countless arguments, silent feuds that may last months at a time. It’s normal, we all have such big personalities. My mother would force us nonetheless to come all together for Sunday dinner. Eventually there’s a softening, because how can you stay angry at someone seated next to you at the table every week? Her tenacity at keeping up appearances — which is what it used to seem like for me—is actually the glue that holds the family together, that’s kept all of us siblings close and respectful of each other. We truly, deeply love each other. And today, I look forward to seeing my family every week, and although it may not be as set in stone as it used to be, I’m so grateful my mother has continued to uphold the tradition. It’s such a precious privilege to be in a family full of love.
Love hard.
No one loves harder than my mother. I won’t lie, sometimes it borders on obsession and stalker-like behavior. (I used to leave my phone unchecked for an hour only to find 20 missed calls. I love you Mom!!! Please just text me haha.)
If there’s anyone who best embodies Mama Bear—it’s Vicky Zubiri. I swear she would do anything for her children, a sentiment she expresses very often and sometimes in a scary, aggressive, fighting way. “Please don’t do that, Mom,” I say with a nervous smile.
Kidding aside, when she loves you, she loves you deeply. Nothing you can do will ever change it. Is it unconditional love? Sort of—with her there are always conditions and ultimatums: “Don’t leave me or I’ll pull your toes when I die.” But in that unconditional way, wholly accepting of all your faults and misgivings? Yes. She might not let you forget them, but she will always love you and love you hard.
I’m grateful to have a mother who is so open about her imperfections. She’s never pretended to be anything but herself to me which leaves a safe space for me to be myself around her. She’s my person and I have never felt anything but love from her. Even if it is sometimes a little crazy… I’ll take it.