Last night I was speaking with my mother, and somewhere between asking me when I was coming back to DC to visit, and how my finger was healing, we got on the topic of…just…life.

She said to me, “You know, I’m happy with who I am, and what I’ve done. I’m at peace. But I have to admit that I think I could’ve done better.”

“Better how?” I asked, totally puzzled. I mean, this is my mother, a woman I, and most people who know her see as three steps from angel-status. What could she have possibly done better?

“Y’know, if I’m honest, sometimes I wonder how my life would’ve been had I taken more risks.”

…

Wow. She finally admitted it.

From there we talked about the risks I’ve taken in my 29 years. The ones she didn’t understand or agree with, and the ones that were downright foolish and irresponsible. But this time when we discussed it all, the moves, the career, the opportunity, the failures and rejections, she spoke about them with understanding, pride, and sincere admiration. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted, for her to understand that she played it safe so that I wouldn’t have to.