Who is my “mama?” Well, that is an excellent question, and I’d love to tell you about her. Because she will never know my name and she will never know that I exist, but she’s the woman that raised me through her music and her acting because she was the only safe space I could find.
My Mama, the woman I will be writing to in most of these letters, is Reba McEntire. The fierce, fiery, sassy redhead from Oklahoma who has been named the Queen of Country Music. While I am sure many people would argue it’s Loretta or Dolly or Patsy or Tammy, Reba is certainly up there with the royalty. For me though, she’s so much more than that. She’s genuinely the one whose voice instantly calms my nervous system and helps me reset.
Why Reba? Well, see, it’s a funny story. I grew up listening to 70s/80s rock (some 90s, but mostly the 70s and 80s). But my great grandma listened to country music. The old stuff. The good stuff. I can’t explain what it was about Reba’s voice, but it captivated me. No, I didn’t fall in love with “Fancy” or “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia.” I didn’t even fall in love with “Whoever’s in New England.” No. I fell in love with a deep cut. One that many people forget about.
I fell in love with “Little Rock.”
Not only did my great grandmother listen to her music, but she also watched her TV show in the early 2000s. Seeing her on the screen, playing a mother that loved her children with everything she had and would do anything for them, that is what captivated my heart. My own mother wasn’t, and still isn’t, that way. Admittedly, I have spent a good portion of my life convinced she hates me. But there was a scene in one of the episodes on the Reba show that made me realize that my mother was the abnormal one.
It was Season 4, Episode 22. “Hello, My Name is Cheyenne.” Cheyenne’s drinking problem comes to light. It is the last scene in the episode. They are in the kitchen and Reba catches Cheyenne with a drink. And Cheyenne admits that she’s scared. She doesn’t want a drinking problem. And it ends with Reba giving her a tear-filled hug letting her know she isn’t alone. And man, I lost it. Even as a kid, I cried because I just wanted a mama like that.
Then I found her song “You’re Gonna Be,” which was released as Track 1 CD 1 of the album #1s. And the music video came out. And my heart broke all over again. Because why didn’t my mother love me like that? Why didn’t I have that kind of relationship with the woman who gave me life? That song, coming over my iPod Shuffle while I cried in my bed one night; or as I was reaching for the pill bottle to take my own life; or when I finally got in the car after an amazing day I usually avoided, was and is the proof I need that a real mother’s love is unconditional. That we deserve someone to love us like that. And that was when I started calling her Mama.
Now, I spent a lot of my life hiding how much she meant to me. Because I was afraid she would be taken from me. But not anymore. I’m done hiding from it. And I’ve talked over and over again with my therapist about it. Because I’m terrified that this is crossing into some unhealthy parasocial relationship. But this is the difference: I know she doesn’t know me.
She will never know my name. She will never stand in front of me and give me that one hug that I feel like could heal all of me (as long as it lasted long enough). She will never tell me she loves me too. And all of that is okay. It’s good. It’s what is supposed to happen. She should never know my name. I will never get to have that hug and hear those words from her. And I’m fine with that. I mean, okay, a little tiny part of me is super sad about it, but it’s not a reality that will ever happen. Because she’s a legend and I’m just me. And Sandy, my therapist, tells me all the time that because I know that it’s okay.
But I do want to share with you a moment where I got the closest I’ll ever get to getting any of what I want. Because it’s a moment I will never forget and is probably the greatest moment of my life. It happened July 29, 2025, in Los Angeles on the set of Happy’s Place.
It was my 28th birthday. I hate my birthday. But I managed to get tickets to her live taping that day so I drove out there with my now ex-boyfriend for the show. And I didn’t pay attention to the taping itself. I was so starstruck by being in the same building as the woman who saved my life to pay attention to anyone else. And at one point when she wasn’t in the scene they were filming, she looked out into the audience. And I was absolutely staring. But she just smiled, looked into my eyes, and waved. I waved back, and she went back to getting ready for the next scene. And that moment is the closest I will ever get to her really seeing me and knowing who I am.
So that’s my Mama. I’m not writing to someone who doesn’t exist. I’m not imagining a woman in my head who is perfect. I’m just writing to the voice that raised me. My Mama Reba. Who has always been someone who can keep me calm, centered, and steer me back to the right place when I get lost.