My mom is this liberal, feminist, Mormon powerhouse. I just love

“My mom is this liberal, feminist, Mormon powerhouse. I just love her to death.” — thus spoke Eliza Dushku, and in these words we hear a hymn of honor, a daughter’s tribute to a woman of complexity and strength. It is not a simple description, but a recognition of a life lived with conviction, of a figure who stands at the crossroads of faith, politics, and power, embodying contradictions that others might find irreconcilable, yet which she holds together with grace and force.

The mom here is no ordinary figure. She is at once a nurturer and a warrior, a guide within the intimate sphere of family and a force beyond it. To be called liberal is to be open, to seek change, to resist stagnation. To be called a feminist is to fight for equality, to declare that the dignity of women is not negotiable. To be called Mormon is to live within a tradition of faith and community, with its own rules and roots. To hold all these identities and to be named a powerhouse is to be more than the sum of them—it is to be a living paradox, a testament to strength that defies simple categories.

History has known such figures before. Consider Queen Elizabeth I, who called herself the mother of her people. She was both woman and sovereign, bound by traditions that sought to limit her but wielding authority with brilliance. She was at once devout in her religious framework, yet pragmatic and open in her politics, balancing contradictions with iron resolve. Like Dushku’s mother, Elizabeth was not diminished by the tensions in her identity—she was empowered by them, becoming a beacon for her age.

The origin of Dushku’s reflection lies in her own experience as a daughter observing a woman who refused to be confined. For many, faith and feminism may seem at odds; politics and religion may clash. But in her mom, these forces coexisted, not as enemies but as parts of a larger whole. By calling her a powerhouse, Dushku reveals that true strength lies not in avoiding complexity, but in embracing it, in daring to live fully and authentically even when others doubt it is possible.

This statement is also a reminder of the power of love and admiration. “I just love her to death” is not casual—it is the heart of a child who sees her parent as hero. And herein lies a deeper truth: our greatest teachers may not be those of history or myth, but those who raised us, whose lives of conviction and endurance shaped our very souls. A daughter calling her mother a powerhouse is as profound a crown as any ruler could wear.

The lesson is clear: do not fear contradiction within yourself or others. You may be both gentle and fierce, faithful and radical, rooted and revolutionary. The world may try to box you into one identity, but true strength comes from holding your multitudes with courage. And when you see such strength in another—parent, mentor, or friend—honor it. Speak it aloud, as Dushku did, for love and recognition are gifts as mighty as any monument.

Practical action follows: reflect on your own parents, guardians, or elders. See them not only in the role they played for you but in the fullness of their lives—their beliefs, their struggles, their victories. Recognize their contradictions not as weaknesses, but as evidence of their humanity and resilience. And in your own life, dare to weave together the many strands of your being into a fabric that is uniquely yours, strong enough to carry others.

Thus Eliza Dushku’s words stand as more than a daughter’s praise. They are a teaching for all: that a mom, when she lives as a liberal, a feminist, a Mormon powerhouse, is not divided but exalted. She becomes both anchor and beacon, both nurturer and revolutionary. And to love such a person “to death” is to recognize that in her life, you have seen the fullness of human strength.