The Wounds of My Mother

Overcoming the scars that most people don't see.

The scars I see in the mirror remind me of her…

Across my chest and neck. The older I get, the more pronounced it is. In photos, my features now appear to be shaped less and less like mine, and more like hers.

I see the resemblances in my nose, chin, and gaze… Even in my calves when I sit in the grass. Like the parts of me I thought were finally free are now suddenly reminded of a past I left behind. It makes me sick to my stomach at times—a helplessness that leaves me feeling trapped and impure.

I remind myself that I am now grown. And she is no longer in control.

I try to hold the kind of grace and compassion that she didn’t herself have to offer… To keep giving us both the dignity and humanity that she could not.

Every day I live, I defy the layered cage of shame and guilt she built around me—the one that kept me hidden for so many years… Repressing my radiance and ensuring my light shone outwardly on everyone but myself.

I begged her to braid my hair the way she did for other girls in our neighborhood.

Other girls whose mothers would think highly of her if she did.

She baked for them, sewed for them, and even drove them home from school, while my brother and I walked.

My mother didn’t nurture me; we didn’t share tea or quiet conversation. My Mom didn’t encourage my dreams or teach me to believe in myself—she tore me apart at every spark of a turn, whether or not she intended it.

In truth, my mother was my biggest bully and the ruin of any self-compassion I may have otherwise cultivated.

I remember wondering why other mothers hugged their daughters and mine didn’t. They held their hands, stroked their hair, and said kind things to see their kids smile, crooked teeth and all.

Mine just wanted to ‘fix me,’
long before I was broken.

She once asked why I couldn’t be “more normal, like everyone else…” All of her wounds reflected on her as she punished me for things I couldn’t understand.

I don’t remember ever talking with her,
I only remember her yelling.

I remember how my brother and I jumped at every noise we thought was the garage door opening upon her return. Before we ran to our rooms to stay out of sight for as long as possible… Never knowing what to expect.

While I was always my teachers’ favorite,
and other parents adored my polite kindness
and uniquely creative spirit,
In my mother’s eyes,
I couldn’t do anything right.

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Throughout my life, I’ve observed mother-daughter relationships…

I admired them—Gravitated towards the kinds of Mothers I wished I’d had growing up. And I’ve most certainly feared them, too.

I’m acutely aware of the unsettling sensations I feel when I notice certain patterns in mothers I meet today, understanding the lingering impact their treatment will likely have on their daughters.

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Making sense of the motherly love I missed out on used to feel empty—a longing, a yearning I could never fulfill, no matter how hard I tried to eliminate the void.

But today? It fuels my desire to become a mother myself.

To raise happy, healthy children with all of the compassion, understanding, curiosity, unending belief and support, kind presence, safe physical touch, nurturing, bonding, goodness that I never had.

I now know that I will make a wonderful parent—that my hurts won’t lead me to hurt others but rather make me able to love them even better. There’s excitement and eagerness in my awareness that I will know my perfect partner, despite the examples I was shown…

The man whose values will align so clearly with mine, that my confidence in relationships and raising a family will only be further compounded.

I used to believe I wouldn’t be able to have children—That I would inevitably abuse them because I couldn’t imagine being equipped to continue a cycle anything other than what I was exposed to.

Once I outgrew that notion, I then believed that the only way I could healthfully raise my children in the manner I wanted was to do it alone… I now realize that, too, is false.

When I finally learned to release early trauma and holistically heal, I started to see my childhood experiences for what they were…

Of course, I was confused… About self-worth, relationships, eating, money, and nearly everything else. My upbringing was a jumbled mess of conflicting imbalances in every illogical direction.

The rules were never clear, and I needed my guardians to teach me how to interact with the world in stabilizing ways more than most children. Instead, I received an extreme of the opposite.

I recognize now that it wasn’t me that my mother was always mad at—I was just conveniently available.

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I still struggle with looking like my mom as I age. I worry it will undermine all the work I’ve done to separate myself from her judgments… Despite not having thought about them for many years before noticing my scars in the mirror.

I was physically and sexually abused as a child, but the emotional wounds of my mother’s treatment were the most challenging to shake…

Learning to approve of myself was the hardest part. Accepting all of the parts of me that she could not. Loving and nurturing me in all the ways she did not when I needed her most… Protecting me now for all the times that no one else did.

Accepting my disability helped immensely.

It was as though clarity took my spirit, hand in hand, and finally made sense of all the times I felt lost, like an outcast, and unloved… Finally, washing away the many hurts of living a life convinced that I wasn’t enough or that there was something wrong with me that I could not figure out how to fix or heal.

It made it okay to be different.

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The scars of my mother remain on my skin, but I continue to release them from my heart the best that I can.

Some days I am reminded of her suffering through the sadness of my own, but on others I daydream that she is happy now… That she has a partner who truly sees her, a dog to sit by her side as she gardens in a big, beautiful yard, and a massive kitchen to cook and bake to her heart’s content each day.

I imagine my mother is happy now, though it’s hard for me to grasp what it would look like… And what she might look like after all these years.

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I hope you, too, can find the space to make peace with the wounds of your parents, whatever they may be. Though our early relationships inevitably shape us, they can only define us for as long as we allow them.

You are worthy of feeling more than your pain.
And I know you can find the strength and self-compassion within to release what doesn’t serve you—what was never yours to carry, even if it feels like too much to bear, today.

It doesn’t happen all at once, but it will happen if you keep going.

Thank you for being here. I see you.