Becoming Her: A mother's manual for the girl I was

It all started with a bra.

Not mine. Hers.

And not just any bra—but a lacy, blush-colored relic buried at the back of her drawer like some forgotten war artifact. I wasn't snooping, exactly. I was on a mission to find a phone charger. What I found instead was the padded proof that my mom had once been… well, a woman. A sensual, mysterious, lacy-bra-wearing woman.

"Mom," I said, holding the thing like it might explode. "Is this… yours?"

She looked up from her tea with the calm of a woman who's seen enough in life not to flinch at a teenage daughter waving her intimate history in the air.

"Ah," she said, tilting her head thoughtfully, "the battle bra. My wedding night masterpiece."

I screamed.

Dad, reading the paper nearby, made a choking sound that may or may not have been a suppressed laugh—or trauma.

And just like that, I stumbled into The Talk. But not the clinical kind they handed out like punishment in school. This was The Talk, featuring unfiltered truths, hysterical flashbacks, rogue hormones, society's nonsense, and a mother who wasn't about to let me grow up in the dark.

Chapter 1: Welcome to Puberty, Population: Chaos

"Here's the thing," Mom said later that night, perching on the edge of my bed. "Your body is about to stage a full-blown revolution."

"Great," I muttered. "I didn't even get to vote."

She chuckled. "No one does. Boobs will arrive—fashionably late, early, or unevenly. Hair will pop up in places you thought were reserved for plot twists. Your skin will betray you. And don't even ask me about cramps. They're nature's cruel little drum solo."

I gave her the side-eye. "Sounds like I'm turning into a werewolf."

"Close. You're turning into a woman. Which is basically the same thing, but with better instincts and slightly more chocolate."

There was something in her voice—a mix of pride, nostalgia, and maybe even a little grief—that made me pause.

"Did you hate it?" I asked.

She looked at me, honest and unguarded. "I was terrified. My body changed before I was ready to understand it. My mom handed me a packet of pads and a prayer."

I grinned. "So you're evolving the process?"

"Exactly. You get chocolate. And sarcasm."

Chapter 2: Hormones, Havoc, and the Myth of the 'Cool Girl'

"You ever feel like you're… angry at everything?" I asked a few days later after almost crying because my sock got eaten by the washing machine.

"Every Tuesday between 13 and 17," she said, biting into a Kit Kat. "Hormones are like drunk DJs. They mess with your playlist, then leave."

I laughed, despite myself.

She continued, "One moment you're fine. The next, you want to punch your pillow while eating cereal. That's not weakness. That's chemistry."

"I hate it," I admitted.

"You're allowed to. But don't fear it. You're not 'over-emotional' or 'too much'—you're tuning in to a frequency the world tries to mute."

I didn't know it then, but that sentence would stick with me for years.

Chapter 3: The World Will Try to Redefine You

Mom waited until we were grocery shopping to hit me with the heavier stuff.

"You know," she said, as we passed the hygiene aisle, "now that your body's changing, people will suddenly think they own a piece of your story."

"What kind of people?"

"Society. Aunties. Men who think silence is a virtue. Women who measure worth in kilos and skin tone. They'll tell you how to sit, speak, smile, dress, shrink."

I rolled my eyes. "Sounds exhausting."

She nodded. "It is. But here's the secret: don't let them edit your script. They don't get to write your story."

We stood in front of a display of razors, pads, and whispered taboos, and she looked me straight in the eye.

"Be loud if you want to be. Be soft if that's your choice. Just be."

Chapter 4: Marriage, Mythology, and Modern Rebellion

That Sunday, she dropped the final bombshell over pancakes.

"Eventually, someone will say you should 'settle down'," she said, like she was announcing an alien invasion.

"I'm thirteen," I deadpanned.

"Doesn't matter. Society is already measuring your 'eligibility' on some invisible spreadsheet. Fair? Slim? Soft-spoken? Career-lite? Perfect for matrimony!"

I stared at her. "Is this satire or real life?"

"Both," she said. "And if you're not careful, you start believing it. That marriage is a reward for playing the part of the 'perfect girl'. Spoiler alert—it's not."

She stirred her coffee thoughtfully. "Marriage should be a partnership. A choice. Not a checklist. You choose it if and when you're ready—and only if the person walking beside you isn't asking you to shrink."

"Got it. No shrinking. And definitely no spreadsheets."

"Exactly. Now pass the syrup.

Chapter 5: The Realest Friendship I Never Knew I Had

It hit me one night while we were lying on her bed watching old Bollywood movies—the kind where heroines cried in the rain and heroes punched their feelings.

She wasn't just "Mom."

She was a woman. A teenager once. A rebel maybe. Someone who had fumbled through these same hallways of confusion, body image, shame, wonder, hope, and rage.

"Mom," I whispered, "did you ever feel like you didn't belong in your skin?"

She didn't answer immediately.

Then she said, "Every day. Until I made peace with the girl I was and the woman I was becoming. It took years. It might take you less. But I'll walk beside you, either way."

That's when I cried.

And she didn't say, "Don't cry."

She just let me.

Sometimes, being seen without judgment is the kindest thing in the world.

Epilogue: The Bra Comes Full Circle

Weeks later, I bought my first proper bra. Not the awkward training one that felt like a clingy sock. This one fit. It didn't have lace. It didn't try to be sexy. It didn't try to be invisible.

It was just right.

As I walked out of the fitting room, Mom looked up from her phone and smiled.

"You okay?"

"I think so."

She nodded. "It's weird. This moment. Choosing your armor. But it's also powerful."

I held the bag tightly. "I still don't want to see your 'wedding masterpiece' again."

She grinned. "Deal. But remember—it once made me feel fearless. And I hope someday, whatever you wear, whatever you choose, makes you feel the same."

And just like that, my mother stopped being a mystery.

She became a mirror—flawed, beautiful, real—and for the first time, I liked what I saw looking back.