Mother, Dear
This journal entry hits a little closer to home than usual, so I’m grabbing the tissue box before I ruin my keyboard. (And yes, it’s true, I really am the person who cries during diaper commercials.)
I am estranged from my mother. We haven’t spoken in over three years, going on four, and it never stops feeling unnatural.
All I’ve ever wanted is a safe place to just be myself without judgment, least of all from the person who should have been my safe harbor. I never had that with my mom. A few people in my life have come close, but the quiet, lingering truth is that none of them are her.
Which brings me to the question I keep asking myself: How do you grieve someone who is still alive?
When you’re expecting a child, you build a picture in your mind of who they’ll be. I did it when I was pregnant with my son, Liam. I thought about his face, his mind, and who he would become. I was lucky; he was born healthy, and my dreams found a home.
But when I hear parents of children with unexpected special needs speak, like my aunt who had Down syndrome, they share a very specific kind of sorrow: We had to grieve the child we thought we’d have.
It strikes me that this grief is a two-way street. We also have to mourn the parents we will never have.
At six years old, I remember yearning for my mom to be like my friend’s mom, and it terrified me because I loved my mother fiercely. She was everything to my sister and me.
Looking back, I see my childhood for what it truly was: the very first sign of a grief I am still learning how to carry.
But life went on, and unfortunately, not having the "right" mother wastes so much precious time. It took me twice as long to figure out who I was, what I wanted out of life, and what I needed from the people around me.
My dad left when I was only nine months old. I did have a stepfather from the time I was five, but a relationship like that takes time and nurturing to grow, especially when you’re a little kid. My mother was the constant. She was the person I naturally leaned on, and I needed her. So when that relationship never became the safe, steady place I needed it to be, I think it affected me more deeply than I understood for a very long time.
What ultimately severed the bond was watching her fall down the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories. As she became more and more consumed by paranoia, any chance of having a safe, grounded relationship vanished.
It wasn’t just a difference of opinion. It was a fundamental shift in who she was, and it broke whatever fragile connection we had left. What mends my heart today is knowing that every single second I choose to be the mother my son needs. Doing the right thing for him feels natural because I am aware of what’s at stake, and I want so desperately to give him what I never had. I guess maybe that’s the answer to my question. I am still working on it, but I’m getting there.
If you are carrying a quiet grief of your own or learning how to reparent yourself while raising your own children, please know you aren't alone. How have you learned to navigate non-death grief or set boundaries for your own healing? I’d love to read your thoughts in the comments if you feel safe sharing.
