My mom used to be a model.

Hear the words of Jeffree Star, spoken simply, yet carrying weight beyond the syllables: “My mom used to be a model.” Though brief, this statement is more than a note about family history—it is an invocation of inheritance, identity, and the shadows and lights passed from one generation to the next. In these few words, we are reminded that our parents are not merely guardians but individuals, with their own stories, their own triumphs, their own struggles, which ripple into the lives of their children.

The meaning of this declaration rests first in recognition. To say one’s mother was a model is to acknowledge beauty, grace, discipline, and artistry. It is also to hint at the world behind the glamour—a world that demands strength, resilience, and endurance. For the life of a model is not only poses and photographs; it is sacrifice, expectation, and constant scrutiny. By naming this, Jeffree Star honors the lineage from which he sprang: a reminder that his mother’s path helped shape his own vision of aesthetics, presentation, and power.

The ancients, too, revered such acknowledgments of parentage. In the heroic epics, warriors introduced themselves not only by name but by lineage: “I am Achilles, son of Peleus.” To speak of one’s parent was to ground oneself in a greater story, to place one’s life in the stream of inheritance. So here, in the words of Jeffree Star, there is not only a statement of fact but a claim of connection—he is his mother’s child, carrying forth the creativity, boldness, and visibility that defined her world.

History, too, gives us stories of such inherited influence. Consider Sophia Schliemann, wife of the archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann, who once posed in a famous photograph wearing what were called the “Jewels of Helen.” Though not a professional model, she embodied the image of ancient beauty, and her likeness helped to shape the public’s imagination of Troy. Generations later, her image remains, influencing how people view antiquity. So too, the life of Jeffree’s mother as a model carries an enduring impact—not only in her own time but in how her child would one day approach art, image, and self-expression.

This statement also reminds us that parents often live hidden lives, unseen by their children until later. We often think of our mothers only in their role as caregivers, forgetting they were once young, bold, ambitious, pursuing dreams of their own. By saying “My mom used to be a model,” Jeffree Star reminds us that the people who raised us carry entire worlds of experience behind their eyes. To recognize that is to honor them not just as parents, but as complete, complex human beings.

The lesson, O seeker, is this: know the stories of those who came before you. Ask your parents not only what they gave you, but who they were before you came into their lives. Their dreams, their struggles, their identities shaped the ground on which you now stand. To honor them is not merely to thank them for their care, but to acknowledge the fullness of their humanity. For in their lives lie clues to your own strength and destiny.

Practical is this counsel: sit with your parents, or with the elders who remain in your life. Ask them about their youth, their passions, their forgotten triumphs. If they are gone, seek their stories in photographs, in memories, in the words of others who knew them. And as you uncover these lives, weave them into your own, carrying forward not only their blood but their spirit. For the greatest inheritance is not wealth or status, but wisdom and example.

Thus Jeffree Star’s words, though simple, rise as a teaching: “My mom used to be a model.” Let us remember that behind every parent is a story waiting to be honored, and behind every child is the echo of those stories. To see this truth is to walk not as an isolated self, but as part of a great chain of life, beauty, and resilience, stretching into the past and carrying us toward the future.