I am the daughter of a mother with an anxious mind. We live by our lists and choke on our worries, but damn do we have it together. With so many loose ends pin-balling through our thoughts, sometimes we’re prone to forgetfulness. You’ve seen us before—our hair is often frizzy, our eyes tired. But our minds—they’re running wild. It’s dizzying. They never stop.

As soon as I walk down the stairs, as soon as she gets that good morning text, I know she can see it. Maybe it’s intuition, maybe it’s connection, maybe it’s just plain and simple: a mother’s love, but whatever it is, I know that she sees it. And I know that she worries.

But she shouldn’t. She prepared me for this. With her as my mother, I have an armory of determination, adamancy, and purpose. When my head spins the way it does, it is hard to not demean myself for the twisted way I go about things with such rigidity, such worry, but I know that I am valued for my order, my neatness, my prudence.

It’s exhausting, but we’re stubborn. It’s unlike us to turn down a challenge. We’ve learned to stop fearing the whirlwind that is our every day. It’s a part of us as much as the fine lines beneath the creases on our cheeks. We have worry lines, yes, but we have smile lines too. We’ve been figuring this out together. It’s a one day at a time kind of process. The irony of bonding through worry is not lost on me though.

But my mother, anxious mind, oversized purse, and all, is a through and through badass, and she’s turning me into one too. She is the strongest and strongest-willed person I know. She takes everything head-on with unmatched confidence. She has everything in order to a tee (even though she rarely think she does), and her loved ones rely on her for a sense of order and harmony in their own lives.

And I see that order (which I’ll admit borders on too rigid sometimes) seeping into my own habits.

Asking my roommate at 10 in the morning what we should make for dinner that night.

Sitting up in my bed, still half-asleep in the middle of the night, suddenly jotting down lists of chores to be done.

Planning my trips and even just my average days in what I think to be the “most logical” order—which yes, is entirely arbitrary.

And I can catch clearer glimpses of her in myself every day—on my crumpled up sticky note to-do list, reminding me of the articles I have to read (and write), the papers I have to edit.

I see her in my knack for planning even the most mundane events step by step, so as to not miss a detail.

I don’t let life happen to me. She taught me how to do that. She taught me that nothing is really out of my own control. She taught me that my strength is in my independence, and as long as I can keep myself and my loved ones in line, there is little that can best me.

They say as we women get older, we start to become our mother, and I can only hope that’s true.