Taking notes and realising my handwriting is a mix of my father’s drawn out, erratic spacing and my mother’s tight, bunched sentences.

Akin to the joinery in cursive handwriting, much of my make up is subtly intertwined.

My instinctual mind is my mother’s, my logical mind is my father’s.
My deep bubbling fury is my mother’s, my extrinsic immediate temper is my father’s.
My intuition is my mother’s, my superstitions are my father’s.
My bubbly disposition is my mother’s, my outward brash nature is my father’s.
My whimsical nature is my mother’s, my rigid nature is my father’s.
My up for anything energy is my mother’s, my down for anything energy is my father’s.
My fierce and loud support is my mother’s, my loyal and unwavering support is my father’s.
Curious examination is my mother’s, critical examination is my father’s.
Seeing you for who you are is my mother’s, delivering harsh truths is my father’s.

Loving people from a place of intense adoration, protection, devotion, acceptance and support is the same as my handwriting, an indecipherable blend of both.