There is no one on planet Earth more obsessed with fishing than my son. It’s a daily ask, multiple times a day—morning, noon, and night. He is dedicated to the experience, not even necessarily catching fish, but simply being in nature. It’s pretty cool. I recently bought a fishing pole, and even bought one for G.
When I think of fishing, I think of my late stepfather, Vince.
He became my stepdad when I was 12. He never said he loved me, was proud of me, or truly even fancied me much. I was kind of a nuisance, a package deal when he married my mother.
But by golly, fishing was his jam.
We lived on a bluff in the Ozarks of Arkansas. Vince had a cedar log cabin built for my mother from the ground up. It was impressive. He liked doing things that were showy to the public eye. He liked the “aha” factor. My mom was blown away by the view and the acres of land she had inherited from her parents. Below us was a beautiful river that my stepfather spent a lot of time fishing in.
He was the guy with the khaki-green fisherman’s vest and the gigantic tackle box filled with every kind of lure and hook you could possibly imagine.
Trout, trout, and more trout.
I only wish he could have loved me as much as he loved to fish.
I wish he would have approved of me. Told me I made him proud. Told me I was a good kid. Told me I was something to him.
But not once did he ever say, “I love you.”
He bought me high-end things I didn’t even like. Were those things supposed to mean, “I love you”?
He was a loud Polish man whom everyone highly respected and regarded. He had money. He was fancy and bougie and made a scene. He was a perfectionist.
And I was always intimidated by being his stepdaughter.
My mom became mentally ill at 44. I was 15.
She became schizophrenic, and it was the scariest experience of my entire life to witness. She had to be admitted to a mental institution. My mother was very, very unwell.
I was just a kid, and I desperately needed her guidance, love, approval, and support.
When she was gone, I was left with Vince.
One day, we hopped into his white pickup truck to take the garbage to the dumpster a mile down the road. I sat atop light-blue upholstered seats with those little balls embedded in the fabric.
And then he said it.
“This is all your fault, you know. You made your mother this way. You caused this. You were a bad kid.”
It was in that moment that I questioned whether I was worthy of being loved at all.
I believed him.
I slipped so low into that seat, into that truck.
I hated him for blaming me for something my mother was predisposed to have. I was not in charge of genetics or DNA. I was not responsible for my mother’s breakdown.
Mental illness is not a person’s fault.
Fuck him for saying that to me.
I will never, ever forgive him for it.
It gutted me.
I knew I couldn’t stay with him, so I got out of Arkansas as fast as I could and moved in with my safe haven—my dad and Sally.
Years later, I found myself sitting outside with James and Grace.
I peeked at James, realizing how much he absolutely did not mind that he had grazed his finger with a lure, causing it to bleed, or that he was dripping sweat. He was completely absorbed in the experience.
I peeked at Grace, who was bored, watching Salish on my phone and sweating.
There is something incredibly relaxing about casting after you’ve put your bait on the hook.
Waiting.
I looked around.
And there it was.
A hummingbird.
I immediately thought of Mama when I saw it because that was one of the things she loved so very much—all things related to nature, gardening, and being outdoors.
I wondered if she was smiling down at two of her three grandkids.
I wondered if she was proud of me and all I’m doing as a mother.
Then I saw hummingbird number two.
I wondered if that was Vince visiting us because we were doing one of his most favorite things of all.
Fishing.
I cast after placing a spit-made bread ball on the hook.
And there, on the end of my fishing pole, was a white feather.
I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes, knowing with 200 percent certainty that it was my mother.
Maybe she was reminding me of what my heart and soul already know:
I am doing a good job.
The feather lingered.
Then, just below, against the shore, lay another gigantic white feather.
“Mom!” Grace held up a feather that was gray and black and patterned.
“It’s Grandma Jan.”
Signs.
That’s what I believe these were.
Signs that I am being watched over by those who have left me, but haven’t gotten so far away they can’t still visit.
Still notice.
Still see.
Still remind me they are here.
Still remind me to keep going.
Still remind me they are proud of the mom, friend, woman, and person I have become.
Maybe that is what fishing means to me now.
It used to belong to Vince. It was something he loved deeply, something I associated with a man who never quite knew how to love me the way I needed to be loved.
But sitting there with my own children, I realized I get to make the meaning different.
I get to take something that once carried so much hurt and fill it with something new.
My son doesn’t fish because he needs to prove anything. He fishes because he loves being outside. Because he loves the quiet. Because he loves the possibility of what might happen when he casts a line into the water.
And maybe I’m learning to do the same.
To cast something out and wait.
To stop trying to control what comes back.
To notice what is right in front of me.
A hummingbird.
A feather.
My children beside me.
The people I have loved and lost somehow still finding little ways to remind me love doesn’t always disappear when someone does.
Maybe the greatest gift I can give my children is to let them experience the kind of love I spent so much of my childhood wondering if I deserved.
The kind that says, without hesitation:
I love you.
I’m proud of you.
You are good.
You are worthy.
You are mine.
And maybe, just maybe, that is the real sign.
Not the feather.
Not the hummingbirds.
But the fact that after everything I went through, I became the mother who notices them.
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