There’s a deep ache I’ve carried since childhood.
The kind that doesn’t always have words—but shows up in the quiet moments, in the things I overthink, and in the way I mother.
As a little girl, I just wanted to be near my mom.
I didn’t have the words to understand addiction, but I could feel it in her absence.
Even when she was right in front of me, her eyes would glaze over, and I could tell—I’d lost her again.
And like many children, I made it about me. I thought I was the problem.
That if I were better, quieter, sweeter—maybe then she would stay.
When we were separated by foster care, the ache only grew.
Eventually, it hardened into pain. A pain that didn’t just long for her anymore—but kept me from her.
I always knew I didn’t get what I needed, but it wasn’t until I became a mother myself that I truly understood what that meant.
Holding my first son, loving on him, showing up for him—
That’s when I began to realize what I had been missing all along.
The Ache That Turns Into Awareness
Motherhood has a way of unearthing everything.
And in my case, it’s been a parallel walk—raising my child while re-introducing myself to the little girl I once was.
I mother him with tenderness, and sometimes I feel the sting of what I never received.
It’s in those moments I realize: I’m not just raising him—I’m healing through him.
With every stage my son grows through, I feel myself revisiting my own.
When he turned two, I remembered what it felt like to be two.
When he got scared, I remembered what it felt like to be scared and alone.
Sometimes, the emotions are so strong, I want to shut down.
But I refuse to.
Because I’m not just healing for me—I’m healing for him.
Breaking the Pattern
I’m intentional about being present.
That’s one of the biggest things I’m doing differently.
When I catch myself dissociating, which does happen, I lean on my husband. I pause. I recalibrate.
Because I never want my son to wonder where I went.
I never want him to feel like he’s the reason I disappeared.
Being a mother while healing means I have to be honest with myself about when I need help.
There are days I feel triggered and overwhelmed, when I just want to curl up and shut the world out.
But I’ve learned to lean into my community.
I’ll take my son to the park, where he can run free and I can process in peace.
Or I’ll meet up with my best friend—two moms, two boys, and a safe space to be human.
Healing doesn’t mean I don’t struggle.
It just means I refuse to let my struggle dictate how I show up.
Joy in What He Gets to Have
My son is loud and carefree. He’s energetic and curious.
He climbs without hesitation. He shouts with joy. He explores without fear.
And when I watch him, a pang rises in my chest—
not of jealousy, but of grief.
Because I wasn’t allowed to be that way.
I was too busy surviving.
But survival isn’t the legacy I want to pass on.
And then I remember: that’s exactly the point.
He’s living the childhood I never got to have.
And I get to be the one who gives it to him.
A Word to the Mother Who Is Healing While Raising
If you’re reading this and you’re healing while raising—
If your childhood is echoing inside your motherhood—
If some days it takes everything in you just to stay present—
I want you to know: you’re not failing.
You’re rewriting.
You’re redeeming.
And every time you choose to stay, to breathe, to ask for help, to love with intention—
You’re breaking a cycle.
You are the evidence that generational pain can end—and generational healing can begin.
This Mother’s Day, I honor the mother I’ve become.
The one who shows up.
The one who notices.
The one who says, “This ends with me.”
The one who became what she needed.
The one who turned ache into intention,
and presence into power.
That, to me, is what Mother’s Day is truly about.