My mother would put on the coat, look at herself in the mirror, and smile. "You see, when it is good quality, it lasts," she would say.

Being my mother's only child has been a blessing and a curse. It has meant that I have been lucky enough to have her all to myself. All of her love, generosity and support. When obstacles began to come down our way, it meant that I was the only person who could love her as only a daughter can.

There I was on one end of the phone trying to sound calm, cool and collected because I wanted to protect her. And there she was on the other end of the phone, offering consoliatory words in an effort to protect me, her daughter.

You may recognize the spiral-downward logic when your internal barometer registers that someone is seemingly much more accomplished -- not to mention much more glamorous -- than you are: What decisions have I made that brought me to this place? Have they been the right ones?

Instead of coaching athletes, she has spent the last several years coaching me as I've strived to get better, first from ovarian cancer at the age of 32, then from the autonomic nerve damage the life-saving chemo caused.

"Michael thinks you're already beautiful, and he worries about you when you have surgery. Have you ever thought, Gosh, this isn't worth it?"

My mother died 12 years ago, when I was 23, and I still miss her, every day. But this lesson of independence, more than any other, has given me the direction I needed to navigate my adulthood without her.

Needles were useless in my hands back then, but now, they are a connection to my mother that will never unravel.

When Mom presented me with the orchid corsage, it was as foreign as a lacrosse stick. Or a set of knitting needles. "But I'm not a--" "You gave birth to your daughter," my mom explained. "That makes you a mother."