It was my mom’s birthday this past week. She’s been gone for 15 years, and yet, somehow, certain dates still have a way of making the distance between then and now feel a little less convincing.

I still miss her. There are certain moments when I miss her more than others. Flying, for example.

I always called my mom before getting on a plane. Always. She would give me her blessing, and then I could fly. It was our ritual. My personal pre-flight safety protocol, long before airlines started reminding us about seatbelts and oxygen masks.

She was my good luck charm. And honestly, I trusted her blessing more than I trusted the airline’s safety demonstration.

I still sometimes reach for that phone call in my head. It’s funny how we can outgrow so many things but never quite outgrow needing our mothers.

And then there was voting.

My mom LOVED voting. I mean, really loved it. She believed her vote counted. She believed in having a voice, participating, and making sure she was heard. I honestly don’t think she ever missed an election. It wasn’t an obligation or something she did when convenient. It was a responsibility she took seriously.

The midterm elections just took place, and I kept thinking about her. I imagine she would have been absolutely ecstatic at the sheer number of people who turned out to vote. She would have been following the results, discussing them, probably offering a few opinions nobody had specifically requested (a trait I may or may not have inherited).

But underneath all that enthusiasm was something important. She believed in democracy. She trusted that participation mattered. She understood that having a voice was something to value, not take for granted.

And I think that’s one of the things I hope to pass on to my son.

We inherit more from our parents than their mannerisms, facial expressions, and occasionally questionable habits. We inherit their values. Their rituals. Their beliefs about what matters and what is worth showing up for.

Sometimes those lessons are taught directly. Other times they’re taught simply by watching someone live their life.

My mother taught me that you can bless someone before they fly, and you can make sure your voice is heard when your country asks you to participate.

Both are acts of faith, in their own way. One is deeply personal. The other is deeply communal.

Fifteen years later, I still wish I could call her before a flight. I wish I could tell her about the election and hear what she thinks. I wish I could celebrate another birthday with her.

But perhaps that’s part of what it means to lose someone you love. You discover that they continue to show up in the things you do, the things you believe, and the values you pass along.

So happy birthday, Mom.

I still need your blessing when I fly. And I promise to keep voting.

Some things, thankfully, are inherited for life.