Mom used to make “cheesy mashed potatoes” when I was a child.

I thought it was mashed potatoes with an orange twist because she added cheddar cheese.

When I heard Mom telling my aunt, “We didn’t have enough money for real cheese, so I used those government blocks—they melted better anyway,” years later, my entire world fell apart.

I recall standing motionless in the hallway.

I must have been about 22 when I returned home for the summer from college.

It just impacted differently, and I wasn’t quite upset.

That meal reminded me of birthday dinners, ill days, coming home after a spelling bee victory, or getting scratched knees.

It seemed like love in a bowl to me.

It was survival, it turned out.

At the time, I said nothing.

While Mom talked in the adjacent room as if she hadn’t just exploded a childhood memory, I sneaked into the kitchen, poured myself some water, and just stared at the linoleum floor.

I was more offended by how hard she must have fought to conceal how tight things were in those days than I was by the false cheese.

That insight began filling in many of the blanks over the course of the following few weeks.

For example, why Aunt Nadiya’s children always “gently used” our things, or why Mom would light candles as if it were a game when the electricity would unexpectedly go out for a few hours.

Or how “Property of Cascade Mental Health” was inscribed in fading Sharpie on the bottom of the lunchbox I carried in third grade.

I simply assumed it was a strange brand name.

One night, I asked Mom about it.

We were folding laundry, and I casually commented, “Hey, remember those cheesy mashed potatoes you used to make?”

She smiled slightly and said, “Your favorite.”

I gave a nod.

“Did the government actually provide the cheese?”

She didn’t recoil.

Continued folding.

Yes.

That item from the pantry box that is orange brick.

It didn’t come pre-shredded like the premium variety, so you had to shave it with a knife.

I’m not sure what I anticipated.

An apology?

A reason?

But as if it were no big thing, she simply went on to fold socks.

Perhaps it wasn’t.

But something inside of me broke open in that instant.

I began to inquire more about everything, not just the cuisine.

The reasons behind our three-year move.

Why it looked like Dad was always “out of town” during holidays.

Why I spent the majority of my childhood without a landline.

I had no idea how much Mom had been juggling.

Dad wasn’t a deadbeat exactly, but he was what Mom termed “casually unreliable.”

He’d show up with bags of fireworks on the Fourth of July but skip birthdays and sometimes rent payments.

He was charming and fun, and totally allergic to responsibility.

She had given up on him by the time I was nine years old.

She began doing housecleaning as a side gig at that point.

With her walkman fastened to her pants and a mop in one hand, she would depart early on Saturdays.

I always assumed she would be attending aerobics.

Soon after, I discovered that she was cleaning toilets at houses three neighborhoods away, often as I slept in the car outside.

In college, I began to carry all of that with me.

It feels like a strange form of armor rather than a burden.

I recalled how Mom used to make spaghetti last three days when other kids complained about the cafeteria food.

Knowing we wouldn’t get more until next payday, I recalled using a butter knife to scrape the last of a peanut butter jar after my roommate tossed out a tub of yogurt because it was “a little watery.”

I never told anyone, though.

Not at all.

I obtained my degree, secured a marketing job in Chicago, and started living what I believed was the “real” adult life—wine nights, meal prep, group conversations about coworker drama.

But that old stuff didn’t go away.

If anything, the volume increased.

Despite Mom’s claims that she didn’t need the money, I began sending her a small amount each month.

She claimed to enjoy keeping busy, so I knew she was still cleaning houses, but I also observed that she would “forget” to purchase new glasses despite the fact that hers were crooked and that she would halt more while getting up.

Then the unexpected turn of events occurred.

I wanted to get promoted.

It involved me and a man named Marten, who said things like “synergize our touchpoints” and was always wearing Patagonia vests.

For two weeks, I remained up late every night and hardly slept.

My manager drew me aside on the day of the decision.

After stating that they were amazed by my ingenuity and hard ethic, he inquired about my “background.”

He stated it like a compliment, but I could feel the barbed wire underneath.

“Just curious,” he said, “because you’ve got this… grit.

Like someone who knows how to hustle.”

I kind of laughed.

Yes, indeed.

My mother was a housekeeper.

I was on food stamps as a child.

He blinked.

Too big of a smile.

We need leaders with stories like that.

Individuals adore self-starters.

I was promoted.

However, it felt strange.

As if someone had used my history as marketing material once I had finally unlocked the vault.

I felt vulnerable, not proud.

Like my mom’s struggle was suddenly a quirky bullet point in a corporate PowerPoint.

So I gave her a call.

I told her everything, including the strange boss moment, the talk in the hallway, and the potatoes.

She did not interrupt as she listened.

“I didn’t hide things from you because I was ashamed,” she continued.

To prevent you from carrying it, I concealed them.

I was completely stopped by that.

“But now that you know,” she continued, “perhaps you don’t carry it.”

It might be something you use.

That remained with me.

I began helping with a nonprofit that assisted single parents with job hunting and budgeting during the ensuing months.

I was doing it for my mother, but I kept that from them.

I assisted them in stretching their grocery budgets, practicing interviews, and writing resumes.

It gave me the impression that life was more than just your experiences.

You could resist.

Mom’s knees, meanwhile, were becoming worse.

I pleaded with her to slow down and take on fewer customers.

She declined.

Said that she wasn’t “ready to rot.”

So I became cunning.

Just so Mom could “cut back,” I called Ms. Kaur, one of her longtime clients, and offered to do the cleaning for her for free.

“Your mom already does half of it for free,” Ms. Kaur remarked with a giggle.

She no longer even accepts tips.

I eventually persuaded Mom to let me cover the cost of her physical therapy visit.

Referred to it as “early Christmas.”

Despite rolling her eyes, she agreed.

The second twist followed.

I met a woman named Talia at the organization.

She was attempting to leave an abusive relationship, had two children, and was 28 years old.

In a way, her eyes were like Mom’s—tired but incredibly acute.

Coupon apps and quick noodles brought us together.

She arrived one day trembling.

Her new address was discovered by her ex.

She felt insecure.

She had nowhere to go.

I handed her my key without hesitation.

I had just signed a lease for a walk-up apartment on the second floor.

It was simple—baseboard heaters and linoleum—but secure.

She could stay till she worked things out, I assured her.

She sobbed.

I sobbed.

For supper, we both had mushy cereal.

That time?

It all came full circle at that point.

I was raised to believe that hiding your struggles was the key to survival.

Act as though you were eating cheddar cheese.

Perhaps sharing what you had, even if it wasn’t much, was a sign of true strength.

Particularly at that time.

Eventually, Talia obtained her own place and a job at a bakery.

Last week, she sent me a picture of her youngest child, who was carrying a bag nearly as large as him.

Pre-K’s first day.

In the meanwhile, Mom ultimately consented to halving her cleaning routine.

“Re-learn how to sit down without folding something,” she declared.

I treated her to dinner at a little bistro in our hometown as a surprise last month.

Good food and wine that didn’t come in a package, nothing extravagant.

Mom smiled and remarked, “She’ll have the mashed potatoes,” as the waiter arrived to collect our orders.

I chuckled.

“Only if the cheese is authentic.”

We both burst out laughing.

“You know, I used to worry you’d grow up angry,” she commented later that evening.

That you would be angry with me for the things you were unaware of.

“I used to think that dish was love in a bowl,” I replied, glancing at her.

I now realize that it was.

It was, too.

The problem with struggle is that it might go unnoticed.

Within repurposed lunchboxes.

In low light and cheap cheese.

However, it also molds you.

Makes you more resourceful.

Teaches you that possessing everything isn’t a prerequisite for dignity.

It’s about giving someone else the impression that what you have—food, time, and energy—is sufficient.

So, yes.

They weren’t fancy potatoes.

However, how did Mom make them?

It was a luxury.

Thank you for reading if you have reached this point.

If you know someone who has created “something out of nothing,” forward this to them.

And you’re not the only one who grew up on cheese blocks.

If this made you think of someone in particular, tap ❤️ and share.