Obviously, I wouldn’t exist without my mother—or Mitochondrial Eve—but here’s why she gets the title of the most influential woman in my life.

My mom is direct, hard headed and very independent. She’ll deny any form of weakness. The doctors were astonished when she gave birth to my little brother. They reported that she made no noise and that her face was calmer than a Buddhist monk.

While  visiting Vietnam, she got really sick but hid it well. When we got back a week later, she slept for three weeks. She never complained. If she’s sick, she’ll still go to work and sleep in her car on her break. If asked if she’s feeling better, she’ll reply, “Don’t worry about me.” I’ve inherited her toughness—we don’t tell others when we’re hurting.

My mom and I  don’t talk much. But we’ve been through a lot together. By a lot I mean my entire 23 years on Earth. She’s seen me at my best and my worst. She’s seen me as a teenager, humiliated in wrestling and she’s seen me crash on my road bike. She’s also seen me through three heartbreaks, one of those being when my ex-fiancée and I ended things. Although I’ve rarely seen her cry, she cried with me when my ex-fiancée left. She didn’t say anything when she did, but she didn’t have to.

Everyone’s afraid of my mom. She’s very terse. She would have made a great drill instructor. If I don’t look my best one day, she’ll tell me. If I neglect my health, she’ll tell me I’m getting fat. If I hermit for three weeks, she’ll tell me to go to a party. If my car has rotting food in it, she’ll tell me no one will marry me.

My mom hates superficiality. She doesn’t give unwarranted compliments. She doesn’t gossip. If she doesn’t care much for things, she’ll tell me. But she tries to see the good in everyone she meets.

My mom wants me to do what I love, and by that she means whatever pays the bills and can support a family—she wants grandchildren.

We didn’t have much money growing up but mom always made sure I had a Halloween costume. One Halloween, she colored my face with lipstick and we went out until 11 p.m. When we lost our home in the recession, my mother worked two jobs, trying to get enough money to pay for my wrestling and the three gallons of juice that I chugged each week. My mom would take me to work, where she cleaned bed sheets and talked to me while I ate my hashbrowns.

I recently turned 23. I looked at my mother during dinner. Her face had more wrinkles than when I was a child—her hands more calloused from working. She never expected me to be a towering 5’11” man with a burning passion for biology and the written-word, but here I am. I know the universe is a revolving cycle and that I’m slowly inheriting my mother’s role as the caretaker.