Leticia Borja-Tenorio
GROWING up, my mother was never tall. I mean, obviously, as a 7 or 12-year-old, you wouldn’t expect her to be the tallest, but even as she grew older, her height stayed stagnant. And no, I’m not talking about physical height—like being five-foot-two—but in a metaphorical sense, where she could never quite reach her destined height.
In a Chamorro household, especially when your father is a well-known lawyer, there’s an unreachable standard. Despite that, my mother rose to the top as valedictorian of her high school and continued studying for years to become a pediatrician, returning to serve our island. She followed her passion and became one of the few long-standing pediatricians who has served our island for years.
Even with all her accomplishments, there was always something next—bigger, better. She kept growing as a student, doctor, and person, reaching new peaks and never giving up. Her parents pushed her hard, and with their strict rules, they brought out the greatest version of her. They knew she was destined for greatness. But even now, I still see the little girl who’s constantly reaching for a height that remains just out of reach.
Then she had me—her first child, her first shot at caring for someone other than herself. Throughout my childhood, she worked tirelessly to give me the life I have today. She pushed through exhaustion, illness, and emotion to give me the best shot I could have as a Chamorro girl growing up on Saipan.
So, I grew up. I, too, was never the tallest. But in my case, the unreachable height wasn’t placed by others—it was built by me. My mother was different—patient, kind, and understanding. If I failed, she reminded me I was trying. When I was bullied, she comforted me and told me it wasn’t the end of the world. And when I felt like the biggest failure—after receiving my first F—her response shocked me.
I was nervous, scared, and angry. But when I told her, the first thing she asked was, “What happened?” No yelling, no insults—just concern. I explained, and she never got mad. All she said was, “I know you’re trying your best. Let me know how I can help.” I cried.
I don’t know what I did to deserve the love my mom gives so freely. All I know is she inspires me every day to reach for the stars—and when I fall, to treat the world with kindness and perspective. Success is whatever it means to you. I know I haven’t yet reached my destined height, and maybe I never will in the way I imagined. But if being “short” makes me half the person my mother is, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
