Just a phase.

It's Mothering Sunday – historically when Christians would return to their mother parish where they were baptised, but more often a celebration of mums throughout society. But sometimes, I question if I want to celebrate.

I remember when I was little I hated myself, though fortunately it never got to any severe stage. I'd be upset that my eyes weren't blue, that I couldn't be understood by my parents and feared to be who I am for their judgements.

At one stage, I hated my middle name – Kieran. It always felt odd, there was no history to it. It didn't live up to the grand expectations that James, a name my dad, grandad and further relations all shared in. I was blessed to have the name James, for I was the first-born male who could carry it on.

As time passed however, my aversion to my middle name rescinded. Kieran, when combined with James became my way of separating my identity from that of the James Dorans who'd come before me. 

I'd left school and started college. I was sixteen, and at this point slightly arrogant in my education. Maybe it was a few months into the first year, and I remember asking my mum to have a chat. We sat in the conservatory, just out of earshot from the rest of our family and I spoke to her about my sexuality for the first time. It was a nervous moment where walls could be brought down, or put up just as fast.

We spoke almost in hushed tones where she'd told me that it would be 'just a phase', and then I brought up telling my dad. At that moment she said no. He might not take it well, he might not understand. A 'why upset the applecart' reply which shook me. My first step in finally being myself with my parents, and I was backed into the closet once more, by someone I thought would understand.

The difficulty we face to be true to ourselves in defiance of our family is the greatest struggle, but one that should be overcome. Society shouldn't care, but sadly it is our own expectations of future generations which holds people to ransom over being who they are.

At the moment, I'm catching up on Grace & Frankie on Netflix, religiously binge watching a friendship go through trials and tribulations as their husbands leave and marry each other, leaving Grace & Frankie co-habiting one house whilst their ex-husbands live in the other. All this, whilst they are in their seventies.

One evening, whilst I was at university I had a phone call from my parents. Through tears they informed me that they had agreed to separate, to leave each other after twenty-five years of marriage. My mum would move in with her friend temporarily, whilst my dad would stay in the home we were brought up in.

I cried at the news. Finally they have seen sense and realised that they were't making each other the best they could. They were truly miserable. I was crying out of relief.

Days, weeks and months pass. The world keeps turning and as a motto my dad placed in the kitchen, lounge and hallway said; 'life goes on'.

I can't remember the first time my mum told me about her partner. I'm hazy about the details, but she introduced me to her new partner. But not only did she have to deal with us trying to get our heads around this new person who would be a part of our lives too to some degree, she also had to bridge the gap of telling us her partner was, is, a woman.

We all go through life, changing and adapting, choosing which experiences to indulge and which to skip. It doesn't matter at what point in life you are, you deserve to be true to yourself, and to be happy. My mum was in her forties at the time.

On this Mothering Sunday, the last before my mum ties the knot to her partner, Zab, later in spring, I do want to celebrate my mother. Yes – the advise she once gave me was wrong, my dad being the most supportive and learning to adapt, yet still challenging my opinions in that typical Doran way.

But in reflection, the conversation mum and I had had in the conservatory almost a decade ago was about something else that I never realised. Perhaps it was deeper than my question of sexuality. I look back now and see that perhaps it was a question of her own.

Mum – Happy Mothering Sunday and thank you for being the strong, proud women you are.