Seeing my mum naked made me the women I am today

WRITTEN BY LAURA ROSCIOLI – SEX COLUMNIST & WRITER

Laura Roscioli has built a name for herself writing unflinchingly about sex, the body, and all the messy, beautiful terrain in between. Her work peels back shame with tenderness and humour, offering up lived truths many are too afraid to speak. For Mother’s Day, she turns her gaze inward—to her own mother. In this deeply personal essay, Laura reflects on how seeing her mum’s unapologetic relationship with her body shaped her own confidence, candour, and womanhood. It’s a story of inheritance—not of genetics, but of grounded sensuality, open conversation, and fierce maternal wisdom.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I grew up, recently. I think it’s a product of getting older. I’m almost 30—which seems to automatically make me nostalgic. Or more purposefully reflective. Instead of sitting at home, downing wine and angrily reflecting on feeling misunderstood by the place (and people) I come from, I find myself feeling closer to them. 

Things that I’m experiencing right now—being in love, having someone else’s child in my life, discovering new anxieties—are constantly bringing me back to the people that raised me. Some of them are pesky, but most of them are good. And even when they are a little less than desirable—like my random and newfound fear of heights (thanks mum)—they help me understand myself a little bit better. And I like that. 

People often marvel at the way I write about myself so openly. “Don’t you ever think about what people will think of you?” I’m asked, almost once a week. And the honest answer is: no. Of course I care about being liked to some degree, but it’s never felt like a stretch for me to share intimate parts of my life and more so, my sexual experiences and my body.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on why it comes naturally to me. I don’t do it for the thrill of oversharing anymore like I did in my late teenage years and early twenties. I feel as though I share my utmost intimate and embarrassing feelings and experiences because I don’t know how else to understand the world around me. It’s what I’ve always done; talk and write about the things I don’t understand. I feel as though writing it out will either help me, or someone else going through something similar—maybe (ideally!) both of us. But either way, there’s no harm in sharing, except my own embarrassment… right? 

My mum is the same in so many ways. Although she wouldn’t be one to share the racy details of her intimate life with the internet, I believe that I owe all of my body confidence and personal openness to her. 

When I was a child, she used to walk around in the nude all the time. Pubes and all. When I was younger  she had curves, and wore them with pride. If I asked her a question about sex, she’d answer freely; giving me context without instilling fear. When she got pregnant with my younger sister and then brother—eight and eleven years younger than me—she was open about her physical changes and why they were happening. She allowed me to see the female body in all its glory; in so many different stages of womanhood. 

And through it all, she never spoke negatively about any of it. When she’d have a hot flush, she’d take flaxseed oil. When she felt nauseous, she’d eat ginger and drink chamomile. She showed me that every ailment had a natural cure, because it was a natural occurrence. Bodies—especially women’s bodies—are supposed to fluctuate, to change and evolve like a beautiful elastic existence that helps create life and keep us alive. 

When I was a child I didn’t realise any of this, of course. All I knew was that my mum had hair on parts of her body that seemed normal, that her body could do incredible things to bring a child into the world that didn’t always look fun—but that she embraced it. So it must be normal, I thought. The stretch marks, the pubic hair, the cellulite, the excess underarm fat, the hormonal pimples…it’s all part of being a woman.  

As a child—and as I emerged into a teen—all I knew was that I felt good in my body. That every physical feeling was normal and had a function. I wasn’t scared when my period came along. Or I started getting mood swings. Whenever I’d look in the mirror and didn’t love what I saw—whether I was a bit bloated, or had a pimple on the centre of my forehead—my mum would tell me that those things weren’t worth worrying about, because they’d go away on their own. And then, she’d give me a natural ailment to help. 

She used to tell me that the more we try to take control of our body, the more it does what we don’t want it to. That we’re better off listening to it. I used to find that annoying—because it’s easier said than done when you’re not feeling great—but I did it anyway because it was the only thing that works. 

And it still is.

Her fierce connection to her body is what taught me how to connect to mine—and how to write about it, too. Instead of mulling over a frustrating experience I have within womanhood (usually in the realm of sex, self and body), I write a story about it and share it with the world. It’s my way of sharing my truth, and I’ve learnt from my mum that the truth—especially when it comes to our bodies—is extremely valuable, and often not spoken about in the mainstream world enough. 

Her connection to her body I think comes from a few places. Her European roots. Her own determination to understand how her body works. Having a single mother. A desire to find natural remedies. An absolute love and appreciation for womanhood. The path that her own identity journey took her on and the women that inspired that, like Dr. Christiane Northrup (who wrote an incredible book called Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom), poet Nan Whitcomb, and, of course—Oprah. 

I find myself feeling extremely grateful for the woman that my mum chose to be, the woman that she is and the way that impacts the woman that I am today. It makes me want to know her more deeply—not just as my mother, but as a person. To ask questions about what she went through. To understand more than what I absorbed through osmosis.

I’m so lucky to love many of the parts of me that are like my mum. I adopted some of her anxieties too, sure—but the good far outweighs the bad. I am a woman that adores being a woman, that feels grounded within the female experience and ripe for open conversations about womanhood—especially when it sits in the realm of taboo, or things we don’t talk about enough in society, yet.

And now, as I find myself around a curious four-year-old, as I feel myself getting older—in both my body and mind—I know what to do. 

I’ll be the woman I am, openly. I’ll tell people what I’m going through, instead of brushing it aside. I’ll listen to my body, and investigate if something doesn’t feel right. I’ll tell stories, share natural remedies and continue to talk about the things we’ve been told not to, for so long. 

All thanks to my mum.