“What My Mom Taught Me” Fiction. Based on a True Conversation with my Mom.

“I don’t see the point of having parents if you can’t be open with them and it really does have a very negative impression on my life… it’s like, you’re my parents, I just want to know you, I just want to feel close, connected.”

– Kera Armendariz


“What My Mom Taught Me”

Fiction. Based on a True Conversation with my Mom.

by Nikki Wicz


This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character, or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.


I’ve asked her every question
I could think of
And she would answer
With God on her tongue.

I wanted to ask her
How to fight, but
Instead, she taught me
How to sew
My mouth shut.

Her God taught me
That monogamy was
The only form of love–
Between a man and a woman.
Because my body
Was only as useful
As the children it could bear.

I wanted to ask her
Who she was.
She’s left me stitches of hints
That I can’t piece together:
Like an angry mother,
An abusive uncle–

Somewhere along the line,
She tightened a seam
Around her past,
So it was tucked somewhere
Under the pattern of the present.

And her God taught me
Loving was something done
In our hands and not our hearts.

I’m afraid that if I had
Never once been small enough
To be held in her arms
Then she would never have known
Love for me.

That if I had never been
The thread that she stuck
In the eye of the needle
She could never have made
The quilt that kept us together.

What she never realized
Is that no matter how much you try
To replicate a quilt
It’ll never be the same.

But her God taught me
That a family is what
We make to keep
The human race

A family is what we make
To pretend we know
What love is.

I want to ask her
If she knows that
She made a human.

Instead of a dusty
Blanket, left deep
In the crevices of
An attic.

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