When the Truth About Your Mother Doesn’t Fit The Story We’re Told

Up until I was ten, I was sure you adored me.We played school. You played your guitar. We sang Bob Dylan and the Monkees.(And yes, I remember you telling me my voice wasn’t quite as good as yours. I’ve made peace with that.)But something shifted. You started to pull away. I didn’t know why, but I felt the loss like a stone in my chest.Later, I’d understand.You were drowning in your own pain.You stayed in a marriage that chipped away at you—and maybe, deep down, you blamed me for being the reason you stayed.You grew distant.I couldn’t tell if you even liked me anymore.In my dreams, you turned into someone terrifying.I woke up in a cold sweat.Still, I kept reaching for you.I grabbed onto the moments when your light shone through the cracks—when you softened, even briefly.I wanted to believe you still loved me.I trusted you with my hope, again and again.But you were still broken.And I kept getting cut by the pieces.

The Myth of the Angelic MotherBecause the world loves a simple story—especially when it comes to mothers.We’re handed a script: She was my rock. My safe place. My everything. She always knew what to say. She loved me unconditionally.But human relationships are rarely that tidy.And when your own story doesn’t match the script, you’re left wondering: Is it just me? Am I the only one who doesn’t know how to talk about my mother without tripping over the truth?Sometimes, the most painful part isn’t the story itself.It’s the silence surrounding it.It’s the longing to know someone else out there feels this, too.

The Card Aisle ConfessionalThat longing shows up in the small things—like trying to find the right Mother’s Day card.Finding the right card has always been hard work.As I flip through the rows, I see:“I wouldn’t be who I am today without you.” Nope.“Thank you for always being there.” Not quite.“You taught me about [fill in the blank].” Definitely not.“I could always count on you to listen to me.” Said Karen never.“I’ve always known that you loved me no matter what.” That could work… but only if we’re allowed to debate your definition of “love.”So I keep scouring the shelves, hoping to find the perfect sentiment—words written by someone else, but somehow still true to my relationship with you.Sometimes I think I should apply to Hallmark and write the cards myself.There have to be other people out there like me—people who hope that finding the right card isn’t hopeless.Where’s the card that says:“Dear Mom, thank you for teaching me that my skinned knee wasn’t cancer, so it wasn’t worth your concern or empathy.”Or: “Dear Mom, thank you for constantly referring to me and my friends as the ‘lowest common denominator.’”Or: “Dear Mom, when you called me a slut, it REALLY raised my self-esteem and made future relationships easier.”I already have a picture in mind for the card that says:“Dear Mom, yes, thank you for noticing. I am fat and lazy. I know that because my mother told me so.”It’s dark, I know. But it’s real.And I know I can’t be the only one who’s walked that card aisle with a pit in my stomach and a prayer in my heart: Please tell me I’m not alone in this.

Healing Childhood Trauma Is Not a Before-and-AfterEventually, the forgetting began.And with the forgetting came a kind of gentleness that hadn’t been there in years.Or maybe it had always been there—just buried deep.You forgot a lot. But you remembered one thing.When I was pacing the hospital floor with my crying newborn, you looked up at me and said, “Sing to him. Babies like that.”So I sang. Hush, little baby…And in that moment, I remembered that you used to sing to me, too.You hadn’t shared any stories during pregnancy. No wisdom, no excitement.But you gave me that one thread. And somehow, that was enough.Because healing childhood trauma isn’t about pretending it was all bad—or all good.It’s about standing inside the tension of both truths.The silence and the song.The strength and the sting.You were fierce and fractured.You loved as hard as you knew how.You wanted to give joy and softness, but what you gave me was survival.Strength born from emotional distance. Independence born from necessity.I used to think I became a different kind of mother because I got lucky.But now I know:I became her because I had to heal the girl you couldn’t protect.I became her because you couldn’t.

Tiny Clues That You’re Already HealingHealing doesn’t announce itself with fireworks. It tiptoes in.Here are a few ways I’ve started to notice it:

When I get triggered, I pause. I ask myself, What’s under this? That alone brings relief.I write. I reflect. Sometimes I cry in the car. And sometimes that’s enough.I return to my body. Cold showers. Deep breaths. Anything to stop the spiral.I no longer hate the child in me for wanting to be loved. I just feel her hand in mine.I created a space—this space—where I finally get to be heard.

And perhaps most powerfully, I soften toward my children when they’re struggling. The bigger their emotions, the gentler I become.

Healing Isn’t Always a Plan. Sometimes It’s a Pattern You Interrupt.The shifts can be subtle:

A new way of responding.A phrase you stop repeating.A story you no longer believe.

It’s not always a tool or a therapy session (though those help, too).Sometimes, it’s a moment at bedtime when your child sobs and you sit beside them, fully present.Sometimes, it’s realizing your meltdown had nothing to do with your child at all—but everything to do with how invisible you once felt.

If You’re Ready for a Next StepIf this post stirred something in you—if you’re feeling the ache, the tangle, the quiet hope that healing is possible—I wrote another piece for you.It’s called How to Heal Childhood Trauma and it’s a gentle, strategic guide for when you want to understand what’s happening in your body, your reactions, and your relationships—and begin shifting those patterns.Start here, with your story.Then click over when you’re ready for something more.You don’t have to heal it all today.

You just have to decide that the silence ends with you.