Mother Pain and Grace
There was a conversation that stayed with me.
A friend and I were talking about our mothers.
Both gone now.
Both complicated in their own ways.
Somewhere in that conversation, I found myself saying:
If my mom had access to someone like me—
not me as her daughter…
but me as I am now—
someone who could hold space for her,
create safety for her to speak what she feared,
what she buried…
I think her life could have been different.
My friend didn’t agree.
She believes nothing would have changed her mother.
And she may be right.
She knew her mother in a way I never could.
But I’ve always been someone who sees possibility in people.
Even in those we judge most harshly.
I believe that when someone feels safe enough to let their guard down…
something deeper can emerge.
Call it the soul.
Call it the spirit.
Call it the Self.
But something softens.
Something true comes forward.
And yet…
What if she’s right?
What if there are people who never reach that place?
Never feel safe enough.
Never open.
That thought breaks my heart.
And instead of arguing with it…
it made me curious.
What was she protecting?
What happened that made it feel unsafe to soften?
What would it have taken for her to feel held instead of guarded?
This isn’t about who’s right.
It’s about seeing.
It’s about saying:
I hear you.
I see you.
And I’m willing to look deeper.
I saw my mother as bitter.
Fearful.
Angry.
But I also had something my friend didn’t.
I saw my mother as a child again…
when Alzheimer’s slowly unraveled her.
And somewhere along the way—years before she passed—
I forgave her.
Not because everything was okay.
But because I could finally see her as human.
A woman shaped by what she lived through.
What she believed.
What she didn’t know how to face.
What she had to numb just to survive.
There are two women I’m speaking to here.
The Mother
The woman who is still here.
The one who wants to leave something behind that feels like love…
not confusion.
The one who knows she isn’t perfect—
who has questions, regrets, blind spots.
The one who has said things she wishes she could take back.
Missed things she wishes she had seen.
You don’t have to be a perfect mother.
You just have to be a “I know I’ve made mistakes, but I’m still here” one.
Still growing.
Still willing.
Still open.
The Daughter
The one still carrying the ache.
The one who says:
If only she had supported me…
how much further could I have gone?
That question is real.
And it deserves space.
But there’s another question too:
How long have you been out from under her care?
And what have you chosen for your life since?
Not to shame you.
But to free you.
Because there comes a moment…
when continuing to hold the wound open
costs you life that cannot be relived.
Around 2010, something surfaced in me that I had buried for decades.
I began to face what had happened to me as a child.
Sexual abuse.
From my earliest memories.
I had written about forgiveness before.
I had thought I understood my mother.
But this…
this was something I had never allowed into the light.
And when I finally spoke to her about it—
I brought anger with me.
Because I believed she must have known.
But when I saw her face…
I knew she didn’t.
Or maybe she couldn’t.
Because sometimes not seeing…
is how someone survives.
Here’s what I know now:
Mothers don’t have mind-reading powers.
We miss things.
We dismiss things.
We say things we shouldn’t.
We don’t ask the questions we needed to ask.
We are human.
Deeply human.
And yes—
Silence can protect.
And sometimes… silence allows things to continue.
That truth matters.
But so does this one:
Most mothers were never given what they needed
to become who they were expected to be.
So this is for both sides.
For the mothers still trying.
And for the daughters still hurting.
If you felt loved—
even imperfectly—
that matters.
Because not everyone does.
I have never loved another human
the way I loved my mother.
And I’m grateful I knew that
before she was gone.
And I have never loved anything
the way I love my children.
That kind of love…
doesn’t disappear.
Even with distance.
Even with missed moments.
Even with misunderstanding.
But love…
is not permission for harm.
Not from mother to child.
Not from child to mother.
And still…
There is something sacred here.
Because even in the mess…
even in the missed moments…
There is a love
that runs deeper than we often know how to express.
Maybe…
this is the invitation.
Not to rewrite the past.
But to decide what you carry forward.
And maybe this is what returning to your light looks like—
not pretending it didn’t happen…
but no longer letting it define what happens next
If this stirred something in you…
come sit with me.
Let’s gently explore what you’re still carrying—
and what might be ready to be set down.
