My Mother

In Loving Memory of Cathryn Annette Murray

There are some people who are your home. For me, that was my mother, Cathryn Annette Murray.

My mother was always there for me. Always. In a world where so much shifts, she was my constant.

I think I struggled — and still struggle — with not being able to be with my mother before she died. The death of a parent is often so hard. But I was not raised by my father, so my mother’s death hit me harder. She wasn’t just a parent. She was both. She was safety. She was witness. She was the one who knew me before the world told me who to be.

It’s the little things she did for me as a young person and as an adult that make me sad now. Not sad in a bitter way — sad in the way you miss warmth when the room gets cold.

She was a practicing Sunni Muslim, and her faith was her compass. She taught me discipline, prayer, and that God sees you even when the world doesn’t. She taught me to sit still, to listen, to keep going. She taught me that “word before world” wasn’t just my motto — it was hers first.

She clapped for me when I was one of 5 teens chosen out of 10,000. She believed in me when I said I was going to Copenhagen. She never once said, “That’s too big for you, Cathryn.”

She fed me. She covered me. She corrected me. She loved me with teeth and all, curls and all, flaws and all.

And now I walk this earth without her hands to hold, but with her voice still in my head: “Keep going, baby. God’s got you.”

Grief is the price of love, and I would pay it again. Because to be loved by Cathryn Annette Murray was to be anchored.

I carry her in my name. I carry her in my work. I carry her in every woman I help out of her cocoon.

From shelter to PhD, from girl to butterfly — every step I take, she’s there. Not beside me, but within me.

I miss you, Mama. Thank you for being there. Always.

Your daughter,

Cathryn M. Harris

Writer | Speaker | PhD Candidate

Salem, Oregon