When I think of her, it’s like sunshine. Warm. Safe. Pure love.
And then the ache — because I can’t call her. Can’t say Mom, I love you. Can’t hear her voice when I need it most.

Her name was Aziza. In Persian it means beloved. Cherished. Precious. Powerful. She was all of those things and then some.
She grew up as the daughter of a governor general in Afghanistan.

As a young girl she stood beside her father in rooms filled with kings and diplomats and world leaders.

She learned early what it meant to carry yourself with grace. To speak to anyone. To make everyone in the room feel seen.
She survived polio as a child. Was paralyzed. The doctors had their doubts. She had none. She walked again. That was Aziza — she always did what everyone said couldn’t be done.
She came to America as a diplomat’s wife, four children in tow, and built a home from nothing. No family. No friends. Just a foreign country and the quiet determination to make it work. No announcement. No applause. Just love — steady and unshakeable.

We didn’t just love her. Each of us called her our best friend. All of us. That doesn’t happen by accident. That happens when a mother shows up so fully, so completely, that her children never feel the need to look for that kind of love anywhere else.
She loved everyone who came into her family as if they had always been there. Her heart had no edges. She taught us to look beyond ourselves — joining the other UN diplomatic wives organizing drives for children across the world who needed just the essentials.
She was the root system beneath everything that grew.
And then my father got sick.
She sat beside him quietly and loved him through it. And when he left, just four months later, she told me she could not live without him.
And she didn’t.
Not because she was weak. She was the furthest thing from weak. But because some loves are so complete, so total, so woven into the fabric of who you are — that when that person leaves, part of you goes with them.
She chose him. Even at the end. She chose him.

If you’re reading this without your mother today — I see you. Maybe she was everything like mine was. Maybe it was complicated. Maybe you’re still figuring out what her absence means. It doesn’t matter. The ache is the same. That empty space where she used to be — we all carry it differently but we all carry it.
You are not alone today.

Mama, I just want to say thank you. For protecting us. For loving us. For making us feel safe and truly seen. You were the softest person I have ever known. And the strongest. You were pure magic.
I miss you every single moment of every single day.
Happy Mother’s Day.