Some things are passed on to us on purpose. Others slip through anyway. A recipe with no real instructions. A habit, a phrase, a way of seeing light that you only recognized as a gift years later. We asked The Luupe community to show us what the women in their lives passed down to them. From Sicily to Houston — here's what they said.

Cover photo by Melissa Markle

All the women in my life, all of whom are also mothers: my grandmother, my mother, and my sister with one of her daughters. A family portrait dedicated to them. This image is part of my long-term project about all the women in my family in Sicily: Females, a Sicilian Story

My partner recently obtained his mom's recipe stash and we attempted to recreate her Avgolemono (Greek lemon chicken soup). We both laughed as it was more of a list of ingredients rather than an actual recipe. We recreated it from his memory of his mom's & Yiayia's. He said it was the closest he's had since their passings.

What I carry from my Mum is not an object, but a position, a way of standing back, of observing before stepping in. The world doesn’t arrive at me clearly; it comes filtered, interrupted, held at a distance.

This is how I learned to see.

My mother passed away in 2023. For a long time, our relationship was complicated by alcoholism - something that shaped both of our lives in very different ways. She never got to see me become sober, and there are moments when I still grieve that deeply. But in the years since losing her, I’ve come to understand her with far more compassion than I once could. I wish she could have seen the life I’ve built and the person I’ve become, but I carry her with me in quieter, gentler ways now. Three years sober and counting, one of the accomplishments I’m most proud of.

Not much is said about the tensions in a mother-daughter relationship: unmet expectations, the differences we emphasize in order not to resemble each other, and the comparison — even competition — a gift from patriarchy that we're finally unlearning. When I was young, I didn't like being told I looked like my mom. She would say to my sisters and me: "At your age, I was already married" or "I already had three daughters." We, far from her ideals, were studying, ending relationships, or traveling the world. Her expectations were the ones imposed on her. She believed that getting married or having children would bring us happiness. Seeing us choose a different path confronted her, but then she understood that it could also bring us genuine joy — perhaps the joy she couldn't choose for herself. Today, in my 40's and her 70's, we have learned to celebrate our decisions, even when they stray from expectations. I see my mom as the woman she was, with dreams both fulfilled and unfulfilled, but above all, I see her happy for us and for the freedom we were allowed to grow in. Now, I no longer resist our resemblance — I truly like being like her. I celebrate my mom: loving, empathetic, joyful, with a sense of humor that draws everyone close. I celebrate that we resemble each other: her hands, her smile, her love for life. I thank her that we found each other in our differences and that we love each other even more, if that's possible.

The image is a two-in-one photo montage: one is my mother's ID document photo from her twenties, and the other is a photo of me in my early thirties.

I grew up as an only child but my cousins were my tribe. They were the siblings that I did not have and my mom was clear on that. To my kids I instilled the same thing, as long as you have your cousins, you will always belong somewhere.

My mom passed down her love for the sea to me. The most memorable days I spent with her as a child were at the seaside. I still love the sea to this day.

In Grandma's kitchen, recipes were always more than just ingredients. They were fun! With flour in her hands and lots of laughter, she inherited something precious: the love that transforms into food.

I Got It From Her: Love of Photography. ​I'd even take it one step further, and suggest it's more than that. It's love for capturing the vernacular and then keeping hold of those every day moments through tangible printed photographs. It's recognizing the preciousness in slowing things waaay down.

Last summer I took part in a small group mentorship that another photographer was hosting, when the prompt came up to tell about photography as it related to our own childhoods and families. It may seem questionable, but during that conversation was the first time it occurred to me that my own experience within this context was not necessarily the norm. My fortune, I understand now, is that printed photographs were something both cherished and commonplace in my home. I don't remember having a camera pointed in my face at every turn, but much of our days were documented as children, and I'm so grateful for that now. The stories and truth told through these images has helped me remember with gratitude all the people I've loved, and those who have loved me in return. All the times together, all the birthdays and special moments we've shared, as well as the ordinary every day lives we've lived.

It's become obvious to me now, following the thread in retrospect, that my love of photography and choice to do this as a passion and even a job at times, is not a random occurrence. My maternal grandmother left behind thousands of photographs and dozens of photo books she'd compiled throughout her life, along with collages and written words documenting just about every occasion. But these weren't necessarily artifacts she kept in a locked drawer somewhere - we grew up having full access to this history, and were encouraged to be curious about it. The same was true in my own home growing up. My mother was never concerned with capturing perfection and that's the best part of these pictures now - they don't lie. We really were and are that lucky. To have each other, and to have proof of it all.

This is a photo of me and my son shucking fava beans from our community garden. Even at one year old, he was amazingly focused and great at shucking! I got my love for the outdoors, cooking, growing, foraging and living in connection with nature from my mama and have proudly passed these passions and way of life onto my son. Photo by my husband Sean Martin.

My grandmother’s original recipe in her very own handwriting. I can clearly remember the feeling of pure delight I felt hiding under the stairs in my basement as a child, so excited to indulge in the treasure that was one of her famous Whoopie Pies. As I got older she taught me how to make them, and I have kept the tradition (and therefore a part of her) alive every year since she died. They are a piece of home. The taste of a collective childhood: my mother’s,  brother’s, cousin’s, uncle’s, aunt’s, and now my own son and daughter. I can always feel my grandmother by my side as I bake. In both her life and death my grandmother has taught me love is never ending, and can be passed on-through time, space, photographs, and food-and I’m so thankful “I got it from her.”