Wings of a Lioness: The Geology of Inherited Pride

People often ask me where I get the strength to pack my entire life into two suitcases and head into the unknown. Where do I get that step that never falters, neither in the cold Canadian North nor under the elegant skies of France? The answer doesn't lie in geographic maps, but in an old photo album, my mother's oversized ring, and that blue flight attendant's cap that is worth more to me than any crown. My courage is not my own doing – it is the dowry left to me by my mother, a woman who conquered heights with airplanes, and the earth beneath her feet with her unwavering character.

My mom taught me pride before I learned my first letters. When I was just a little girl, I would sit and watch her get ready. She was the embodiment of grace, beauty, and an indescribable dignity that filled the room as soon as she stepped into it. When I grew into a young woman, I started imitating her walk – that upright posture that says: "I am here, and I don't step aside for anyone." But her beauty was not just an ornament; it was a mask for an incredible strength, honesty, and a sense of justice that burned in her like an inextinguishable fire.

She was a lady with wings, but also a lioness who would, without hesitation, fight a man if someone of hers was threatened. Even now, after all these decades, I can feel the sharp, hot sting of a cigarette on my skin. I was six years old, we were coming out of a store in the sunny seventies. I was running ahead, and she was walking behind me, carrying bags full of groceries. A man at the door burned me with his cigarette, and my child's scream was the trigger for her deepest nature.

The bags flew to the floor, apples and bread scattered, and she... she grabbed him by the jacket with such force that the man didn't even have time to react. She pushed him so hard that he flew two meters backwards. That was my mom – a woman who didn't wait for someone to protect her, but was herself an impenetrable shield.

I laugh today when I remember those moments when I would come home crying because the kids outside made me angry. "Now you're going to get a beating from me too because you didn't know how to defend yourself!" she would tell me half-seriously, in the spirit of that time when strength was valued more than words. That was her school of life: in a world that tries to make you smaller, you must grow. In a world that tries to burn you, you must be the fire.

My courage to change worlds, languages, and addresses is actually her hand on my shoulder. She was freedom, she was love without borders – the kind of love that doesn't bind you to itself, but gives you wings to fly wherever you want, knowing that you carry her strength within you as divine protection.

Today, when I touch her ring in the jewelry box, which is too big for me, I don't just feel the gold. I feel her hand. When I see her cap, I see a symbol of a woman who wasn't afraid of heights. I am her warrior. And as long as I walk the French streets with my head held high, I know her story lives on through me.