It’s not the first time it’s happened, but it was the first time I got curious about it.

The other day, I came home from being away overnight and my beloved husband was lit up with excitement and energy, eager to tell me about a creative project he’d started and spent hours on that day– an epic tale he’d been conjuring up while I was gone, a hero’s journey he mapped out in full detail, with plans to turn it into a story, a graphic novel, a screenplay, who knows, but he was on fire. His energy was off the charts. Yet, as he shared it all with me, I felt myself pulling away, closing myself off in some strange way. Listening intently, his ideas were really good, like seriously, juicy with potential, and while I tried to stay present and supportive, inside I was almost recoiling to the dramatic change in his energy, his voice, his enthusiasm.

There was a part of me that wanted to hide out, in some safe spot within, or to disassociate completely. This is ridiculous, I scorned myself internally. Why am I like this?

One of the best parts of taking care of myself these days has been the noticing, the curiosity that has taken the place of my old practices of shaming myself, or burying my emotions, or scurrying to change uncomfortable feelings with escapism from the nearest numbing resource. While I’m not perfect at this practice, I’m instead becoming adept at staying open with myself, getting curious.

I started with a question. I asked myself… What does this moment remind me of?

What quickly came to mind was a time, maybe ten years ago, when I had visited my mom at a psychiatric hospital. 72 hours before that, we had spent hours and hours in waiting rooms, exam and assessment rooms. I was trying to keep her alive. She had been in the middle of a mental breakdown, and she had been planning to end her life.

Three days later, when she shuffled into the day room, where I waited for her, she was lit from within, beaming with a sparkle in her eyes, and a smile I hadn’t seen on her face in a very long time. It felt good to see her so happy, yet as she rapidly chattered, I found myself pulling away, being resistant. She felt too unfamiliar, it felt like too much, as she manically spilled out her new life plan.

“They want me to have a plan for after discharge, they won’t let me out without a plan,” she said. So she had decided to restart a business she had in the 80s, making baby crib sets, matching quilts, bumpers, pillows. She had been quite talented and creative, before the mental illness and addiction had taken over her existence. A lady she had met in there would help her, she knew lots of people and promised to hook her up with potential customers. Those same feelings of wanting to close myself, wanting to shield myself from this intense light arose in me. This wasn’t real, I thought. She was clearly on some strong mood stabilizers, as she had been nothing but shadows and despair and wanting to die just three days before. It was all too much for me to handle, to believe. To trust.

As I remembered this, it felt comforting somehow, finding a connection, but I knew there was more to explore.

So what did that experience remind me of? Trace it back; pull the thread.

I’m ten, in the kitchen with my mom and she is drinking. Her drinking nights always started out with a super infusion of energy and joy, full of music and laughter and good smells. She’d sing while she cooked, playing “name that tune” with me and my dad, to the oldies on the radio. Dinner seemed to take hours to prepare, as she became more and more intoxicated. It would shift from happy, joyful family time to something darker. I didn’t know exactly how the night would end, but I knew it would not end well. She’d soon get ugly, and I’d get a major attitude, I hated her like this.

When she wasn’t looking, I’d dump her little plastic cup of vodka she kept hidden on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, thinking in my little ten year old mind that I could stop a moving train.

“Did you mess with my cup?” She’d hiss at me, keeping her voice down so my dad couldn’t hear in the next room.

“No!” I lied.

“Why are you like this? Why are you always trying to ruin my fun?”

Later, there’d be crying, yelling, trouble, fights between her and my dad, sometimes even violence. Sometimes, they’d continue well into the night, as I listened for loud sounds of things breaking from my bed, scared and worried. I hated it when she drank. I hated who she became and what it led to.

Tying this back to the present, I came to the realization that I get very uncomfortable around extreme emotions, even when they’re “good” emotions like excitement and enthusiasm, because the little ten year old girl inside me doesn’t trust sudden emotional intensity. Doesn’t feel safe around extreme mood elevation. The little girl inside me feels a need to retreat within, to put up walls of protection, because once upon a time, it was a matter of survival— of staying “in control”, guarded and mistrusting. Because my experiences had taught me, when people are too excited all of a sudden, something bad ends up happening.

As an adult, back in 2026, I realize this is unreasonable thinking, my husband being excited about a story outline is not unsafe. But the little girl in me finds it too uncertain when people’s moods are out of the ordinary, extreme or suddenly not predictable.

Predictability = safety, and in my childhood, unpredictability meant danger, fear, or that something bad was going to happen. Excitement and energy cannot be trusted. Whoa…

Insight is the booby prize, they say. Realizing the connection means nothing if I don’t address it somehow with action, with different responses. I had to take it further.

The tool that has had the most impact on my healing path has been my ability to mother myself.

What does Little Me need in those moments, when I am being triggered?

Triggers are arrows, pointing to places within us that need healing. They are necessary and helpful, if we are willing to do the work.

When I’m triggered in this way, Little Me needs to feel safe. She needs to know that I am there to protect her, that I won’t let anything bad happen to her, that she can stay, and doesn’t have to hide when there are unexpected mood shifts. She is not in danger.

So I turned within, and talked to her, hugged myself tightly and told her exactly those things. “No wonder you get scared. And when you get scared, you sometimes shut down. That was a wise and helpful strategy, once upon a time. You don’t have to do that anymore, baby. I’m here.”

I share this story with you so that the next time you are having a reaction to something, and it seems “unreasonable”, realize you are being triggered, and that there’s information available to you.

Ask yourself…

“What does this remind me of?” and maybe take it further…

“And what does that remind me of?” Keep going. Take the trigger back to its origin story, and it will make sense. You will make sense.

I hope then, you might ask yourself what that wounded, and likely, very young part of you, a part of you that still exists, needs from you. Re-parenting our inner children takes practice, patience and time. But first it takes curiosity.

Trace it back. Pull that thread.

When you’ve gotten to the source, to the root, then identify the unmet need. And then you, yourself can give that child what she needs. And by doing so, you heal.

After working through this trigger, I don’t expect the same reaction to someone else’s unexpected extreme emotions next time. Taking the time to investigate the trigger and then meet the unmet need may have just dissolved the trigger.

And if the next time someone is coming at me with unbridled excitement I find myself pulling away? I know what to do.

I’ll turn within, to the little girl part of me that wants to retreat, and remind her that she is safe with me.

Once upon a time, a tiny girl named Madeleine was born to a mean and hateful woman. Bald-headed and needy, like babies are known to be, she’d cry to be held, but no one came. Although her mother was gorgeous as a movie star on the outside, always wearing the newest fashions and bright red lips, inside she was ugly, cruel, and broken.

This woman was so broken, that as Madeleine grew, her mother made it known that she had never been wanted, that she was a very ugly little girl, and that she was hated by her mother. The very woman whose job it was to nurture, protect and love, used belts, hangers, brushes and whatever was close enough to grab, to strike Madeleine’s little body, often leaving swollen marks.

Luckily, Madeleine had a very loving grandmother who lived in the apartment downstairs. She would run to her grandmother after a beating, hoping she hadn’t heard all the yelling and crying from upstairs. She pretended to be happy, she was not allowed to tell. She’d carefully hide her fresh bruises and make up stories about the noise, and pretended that everything was a-okay. Her kind and loving Grandmother would snuggle her and kiss her little head, never knowing, or maybe just never asking.

This little girl with gangly legs and eyes as blue as the sky was made to take care of her younger brother, who was a baby. Often they’d be locked out of the house, for hours, in the heat or in the cold, while her mother entertained men, and did bad things with needles and spoons. She knew because she’d find them around the house later. Strange men came and went. Some of them scared her and looked at her funny, in a nasty, scary way. Loud parties lasted late into the night, even on school nights, while she tried to sleep upstairs. Her worn second-hand pajamas were not enough to protect her from random intoxicated men who sometimes stumbled in.

At school one day, the teacher excitedly told the class they would be watching a total eclipse of the sun outside. The kids made special viewers out of aluminum foil and cardboard boxes. The teacher repeatedly warned them to not look directly at the sun. It could quite possibly blind a child, for life.

For life? Blind? Madeleine considered this.

When it was time for the eclipse, the class bumbled outside, excited and anxious to see this rare event. When it happened, Madeleine did not take her eyes off of the sun. Even though she could feel it burning into her sky blue eyes, she didn’t care.

In fact, it’s what she was hoping for, so that maybe, if she went blind, her mean mother might love her.

She so badly wanted to be loved and was willing to trade her eyesight for it.

Nothing happened, even though she stared so hard, it hurt. Disappointed, she walked home somberly, her eyes still in tact.

The little girl was my mother. My heart would break whenever she’d recollect this tale from her collection of childhood stories.

I can’t imagine a mother so cruel. I can’t imagine a little girl feeling so hated, so worthless, that she would give up her eyesight, just to be seen, just to be loved.

Abuse makes a child create the strangest fantasies. She stared at the sun, ready and willing to be blind, just to be loved.

My mom had me, very young. Married at 16, she gave birth to me at 18, with a vow in her heart, that I would never feel unloved or unwanted.

And for the first few years, she doted on me. She sewed Barbie clothes for me, made me pretend kitchen appliances from cardboard boxes, with dials that really turned and doors that really opened. She and my dad gave me my love for words and books, teaching me to read at age 3. She played with me, a lot, and we’d sing and dance and pretend and have adventures and I adored her.

I learned more of her horrible childhood as the years went by. I’d hear the same stories over and over again, especially when she drank. It was always plain for me to see, she was still in pain. Yet she did her absolute best to raise me lovingly. How did she even know how to love a child, considering her model, considering the mental and physical abuse she endured? How was she so loving and caring, considering the cruel voice in her head that never stopped telling her she was worthless?

Some mothers continue cycles, and some break them. My mom broke the cycle of maternal abuse with me. She decided to do things differently.

We break cycles by deciding to do things differently. We make promises that our children will never know the pain we did. And then, we work hard.

But, she never healed from the damages that had been done to her. Instead, her inner child’s festering wounds ran her life. She turned to drugs and alcohol early, to numb the pain. She struggled with addiction, mental illness, eating disorders and self-loathing.

That voice of her mother, “you are ugly, I never wanted you, I hate you” never went away. It just became her own voice, to herself.

My mom was sick, for her entire adult life. She was a loving, attentive mother to me and my brother, up until she left. Without the tethers of mothering and wife-ing to keep her anchored to the earth, she floated out, into her own chaotic world, because she never learned to love herself. And that breaks my heart.

My relationship with her, after she moved out, was complicated and challenging, a roller coaster of emotions, years and years of drama and chaos. Most of her and our troubles stemmed from my disdain for her addictions, frustration with her poor choices and dangerous messes she found herself in. I’d become so hopeful every time she tried to be sober, expecting changed behavior, only to have my heart broken, again and again.

But I always loved her. As painful as it was to love her at times, the little girl inside of me always wanted her mommy.

Our mothers are God embodied when we are children, and those children live inside of us when we are grown.

Sadly, that little girl inside of her, the one with the festering wounds, the one who would willingly burn her eyes blind to be loved, never healed.

So Mom, good news. I broke the cycle. I’ve worked so hard to get here.

I love myself. I take care of myself.

I give and receive love in a health(ier) way. I am whole, and healed. I continue to heal.

The unmet needs of your childhood were never met, and I’ve learned to meet my own.

I mother myself, tenderly, lovingly.

My mom would be happy to know, I dote on me. Just like she used to.

What cycles are you ready to break? What unmet childhood needs can you learn to meet yourself?

What could you do to mother yourself now, the way you needed to be mothered then?

P.S. Mom, I hope you don’t mind that I’m telling your story. Please understand, it’s my story, too.

For many years of my life, on the day before Mother’s Day, I’d stand in front of the card section of Target, flipping open card after card after card, looking for words that felt true.

“Nope. Not that one. Nope. Definitely not that one.“ I was looking for a needle in a haystack, but there were no cards that said …

“Mom, you were great for the first few years. Thank you.”

“When you left, you left a hole in my heart, and I’ve been grieving ever since.”

“To my Mother, I’m frustrated, hurt and tired. But I still love you…”

Instead, the entire section was always filled with pretty pink cards, basically saying the same thing. “You’re the perfect mom and everything’s perfect.”

The cards all felt like lies.

The last Mother’s Day my mom and I shared was nothing like any of the others of her final years. Usually, my husband and I would pick her up in the afternoon for a late lunch or early dinner. She’d be waiting outside her apartment, sitting on her walker seat, dressed prettier than I’ve seen her dress since Christmas. Hair done, scarf around her neck, matching jewelry that she only wore for special days. Perfumed and smiling. We’d usually have an okay time, but it was rarely “lovely.” My sweet mom was becoming more difficult to be around every year. I usually ended up with a stomachache and completely drained, desperate for a nap or just a dark, silent room.

That last time, it started off weird. I couldn’t get a hold of her. She wasn’t answering my texts or calls. My last message announced that we’d be there at 3 to get her. She wasn’t waiting outside. Not a good sign. I used my key to let myself in.

“Mom?” I called into her dark apartment. I found her sound asleep in her dirty bed, not dressed, not ready. She sat up confused, said she forgot. “Oh Mama, you’re not ready. It’s okay. If you want, we can do this another day so you can rest, it’s really okay…”

“No, no, let’s do it, it’ll take me 5 minutes.” She stumbled around, grabbed some wrinkled, musty smelling clothes. Threw her matted hair up and tied it with a scrunchy. This is not good, I thought, stomach in knots.

I didn’t know if she was hungover, depressed, messed up on sedatives or what. We tried to make small talk with her at the table. She was so disengaged and cloudy; she was not there.

I’ll spare you the details, but it was bad.

To cap things off, as we were getting into the car, my poor mom had to get to the bathroom, fast. But she couldn’t do fast anymore, and as we rushed through the restaurant, she had an accident. My poor mom. I was behind her trying to get her in there as fast as possible. The smell trailing into my nostrils caused me to throw up as soon as we got to the bathroom.

We dropped her off back at her apartment, I did not help her clean up. I just couldn’t. That was one thing I could never bring myself to do, and I’d blown past my window of tolerance for the day.

Worst Mother’s Day ever.

Now, three years since her death, I look back and realize how not okay she was, yet her years of decline were so stretched out, things dissolved so slowly, I somehow “normalized” her unwellness. And in my mind, that was her, being unwell. Declining. I had no other options but to let it happen. She wouldn’t accept help. She refused to get tested for anything. She fought me tooth and nail on seeking mental health care or medication. She was over life, long before her life was over.

My poor, sad, fading mother. As Matt and I drove away, I cried. She’d given up. She was dying. She was only 69 and knew in my gut, that was our last Mother’s Day together. Six months later she was gone.

I’m not telling you this tragic story for sympathy, or to “poor me” my way into absolution for not taking better care of her. I’ve punished myself enough, I’ve done my penance, I’ve retired the self-flogging. I have forgiven myself. I could have done better, but I did the best that I could.

I’m telling you this, in the case you also have a hard time with Mother’s Day, due to your own painful relationship with your mother. Our circumstances are unique. But pain is pain. You are not alone.

You may be broken-hearted for the mother you have, or don’t have. You may be dreading your traditional Mother’s Day brunch because your mom is critical and difficult, or has rejected you.

Or maybe your mom is gone, and you’re still grieving, feeling especially raw on this particular holiday.

Maybe it’s a holiday you’d wipe off the calendar if you could.

If your heart aches or hungers or resents or dreads Mother’s Day this year, for any reason, I am sorry for your hurt. And you are not alone.

How you do Mother’s Day this year is your choice. Maybe you skip it, and treat it like any other day. Maybe you numb out in whatever way eases the ache, maybe the goal is to protect your heart, or to just get through.

Or perhaps you’ll simply pick out another Mother’s Day card that feels like lies, grit your teeth through another tense get-together, and get it over with. Maybe you’ll be able to offset the ache by being loved on by your own children. Maybe you’ll stay in bed, curtains drawn, bingeing on Netflix.

There’s no wrong way to feel or do this.

Your feelings are valid, your ache is valid. And I understand that ache. Because I have felt it most of my life.

Come Monday, Mother’s Day will be over, and my hope for you is that you come out unscathed and okay, because you were extra kind and tender to your beautiful heart. Be a safe place for yourself. Stay close to that little girl inside, as close as you can. She needs you.

Daughter to daughter, I feel you. We can get through the ache and we will.

Things have been shifting over here.

Recently, I’ve become quite clear on my direction. A new path has revealed itself as I return to women’s work, as I offer myself as a guide on your own path, if you’re feeling a twinge of readiness. Just a twinge is all we need.

I’m excited to share the first branch of my newest offering, specifically for adult daughters on their healing path. It’s called First We Were Daughters. It focuses on our relationships to our mothers, and how those complex relationships have shaped us and the way we live.

I need to make something clear. My offering in no way is an attempt to blame our moms for failing us. Our focus will be alchemizing the injuries, healing the damage, cleaning up the debris so it stops here.

Our moms are/were human. Mothering “perfectly” just isn’t a real thing, never has been. And most of us, no matter what injuries were bestowed upon us, love our moms deeply, along with all the other complex emotions. Many of us, now as mothers ourselves, have learned firsthand the challenges of parenting, while living a life of our own, in a systemically structured, patriarchal society where women have been largely deemed “less than”.

We have made our own mistakes, so in no way is this a blaming, disparagement of mothers. They too have their own wounds, bestowed upon them by the ones meant to love, protect, nurture and guide them. Our moms have done their best with what they have. Yet for many of us, there is or was something missing. So living within us are wounds that have never healed. Still they fester, impacting fundamental aspects of the way we relate- to ourselves and others and to the lives we create.

I heard a teacher on attachment disorders say something like “Show me a woman with substance abuse, love addiction or food issues and I’ll show you a woman with mother hunger.”

Mother hunger, simply defined, is an inner injury stemming from unmet needs of an offspring, for nurturing, protection and guidance. While much of the available data and resources available focuses on injuries inflicted during the attachment period within the first three years, (attachment theory is rooted in this.) I believe such injuries occur at anytime, from infancy to adulthood, chronically, subtly and covertly. The impact causes damage that runs through a woman’s entire life, and even affecting generations to come.

Mother wounds get passed on. The inheritance no one wants. Until someone brave, someone like you, or me, does the healing work and learns, courageous step by courageous step, to mother herself.

If any of this relates to you, and your life, or you’re just curious, join me by subscribing for free.

Make no mistake, I’m not all healed up and tied in a pretty bow. I’m still doing the work. Things still come up, the opportunity to heal a little more deeply always shows up. And I’ve learned so much along this path that I am guided to share with you, fellow daughter. I’ll be sharing my story, and the tools in my toolbox for you to help yourself to. We can do it together. Your comments, stories, epiphanies and support mean the world to me.

I know this is a brave path, I’ve lived it, I’m living it now. If you decide to join me for the ride, then I know you, too, are a brave one.

When I was a young teenager in the 80s, I used to cry about my mother, a lot. To whoever would listen. I had lost her, not to death, but to a custody arrangement that wasn’t in her favor. And she had her own life to live now, in nightclubs and bowling alleys and dive bars, with boyfriends and booze and drugs.

My dad won full-custody, and it was for the best. We all knew it.

But I missed her. She hardly called and when she did, she was often drunk and weepy. And the drama, so much drama. I never knew what to expect when she called. Maybe she got thrown out of a moving car, or a bar for causing a scene. Maybe she was getting married to her boyfriend’s best friend (His parents were RICH! They lived in a mansion!) or getting arrested. Sometimes she was going to AA, but mostly not. Sometimes she talked about taking her own life. She would try, more than once.

She wasn’t around for the big stuff. And before she left, she had been my advocate, often fighting for my freedom, arguing with my dad on my behalf. She stood up for me, she showed me things and told me things. And now I had to figure it all out on my own. I taught myself to insert a tampon. And dear god, that took practice. “Is it supposed to hurt this bad?” I asked my friends at bible camp that summer.

For what we were missing, my little brother Kiko and I, my dad too, in her absence, looked to church, to Jesus, and community to fill in our gaping holes, and it became the glue that held our little broken family together.

Our pastor’s wife was Jeannie. She was beautiful. Long black hair, red-red lips, a nurturing and soothing presence. She seemed to glide, slightly off the ground when she walked, her panty hose making a sophisticated swish-swish womanly rhythm. She seemed to really like me. She let me help her, up in the nursery, during service. Really, I just wanted to be under her wing, cozy, snug as I could be. Seen and loved. I was hungry, and she fed my little needy soul. If I could have, I would have taken up all of her time. Many of the women of my church stood in for my missing mother during those years, thankfully.

I am no longer religious, and I had a lot of damage to recover from once I left the church, but there were some good things I took with me, too. And there had been many good people, who without their knowing, had been balm for my broken teen-aged heart. Like Jeannie.

Once, on a cold wintry Friday night, we were up in the nursery while service went on downstairs, babies playing at our feet. I cried about my mother. Jeannie held me and rocked me in her arms, and I could feel my hot tears soaking her blouse. And then she pulled away, took my hands in hers, looked me straight in the eye and said “Mija, I know how much you hurt. But listen to me, okay? I want you to imagine every tear you cry going into a well. All of your pain has a purpose. Fill up that well. Cry. And someday, I promise, women who are also hurting will come to your well, and drink, and their thirst will be quenched. That’s what women do for each other.”

Her words never left me, although for me personally, church went out of style with pin-striped jeans and shoulder pads. And I went on with my life.

Shortly after turning 18, I moved in with my mom, and her boyfriend, Tom. Surprise to no one, it was not the paradise I had fantasized about. Between fights, blood, police, suicide attempts, and oh-so-much more, I saw my mom at her worst (up to that point) and quickly married the first guy that asked me, at 19, with her strong urging, after only two weeks of dating. And the painful saga continued, my mom and me, both adults now, struggling to maintain some semblance of a relationship. I wanted a mom. A real mom. Without my realizing it, our roles had reversed. I was mothering her.

It went on like this for many, many years. From Chicago to Dallas, from her many roach-infested apartments, eviction notices, hospitalizations, job losses, shitty boyfriends and sometimes, brief, glowing periods of sobriety. Lucidity, light. We’d laugh and share stories. She’d watch my daughter overnight. They had a beautiful relationship. These periods lasted no more than four months at a time, before she’d be drinking again. I know being sober was a drag for her. She wanted to be numb, to not feel. To ease her pain.

During those brief periods of sobriety, I’d eat her up. Finally! I have my mom again. Sober, my mom was exactly what I needed in a mom. She gave me advice, she listened when I spoke. She made me feel loved, and hopeful. We’d laugh, do mom and daughter things like lunch and movies, before she’d go silent on me. I knew what that meant and kept my distance. I couldn’t stand her when she was under the influence. “Call me when you’re sober.” I’d abruptly ended her call. I banned her from seeing my daughter. I even went three years without seeing her, after she caused a huge drunken scene at my daughter’s sixth birthday pool party. She had become the kind of mom that ruined parties and couldn’t be trusted to watch her granddaughter.

I can tell you it never got better. It got worse, and worse, until November 11th, 2022, it was over. She died alone, in her sleep with half a handle of cheap rum at her bedside. I didn’t get to say goodbye, but I find comfort in the fact that my last words to her a couple days before had been “I love you.” She was dying, I could tell, but I’d been thinking that for a very long time.

It’s kind of funny; a connection I never made was the way that my mom’s saga had become my saga, for during all this madness, I was on my own path of self-betrayal, heading toward self-destruction. I seemed to be following in her footsteps, though way less dramatically. Most of my coping mechanisms harmed no one. I was the life of the party, just like my mom used to be. I found coping mechanisms that served me well, lifting me right out of my pain. Not just my mother-pain, but any uncomfortable feeling or moment. I found escapism, numbing and dissociation in many ways over the years. You name it, from shoplifting to sex, from cigarettes to dive bars and dangerous situations. I tried and tried to straighten up my act. I tried and tried to not be like her.

I prided myself in my hyper-independence, lest I come across as “needy”. God forbid if anyone learned I have needs.

I’d escape one means of my dopamine addiction only to replace it with another. I just wanted to find my way out, and I couldn’t. It wasn’t until I got really honest and faced myself, and did the deep inner healing work by learning to mother myself that I was able to make lasting changes.

I’m free now, from any pain my mother passed onto me. Sadly, she never healed from the wounds caused by abuse and neglect from her own mother. I’m whole now. I know now that I am worthy of my own loving care, and I can finally trust myself.

To be there for myself, to stay with myself, to no longer abandon myself.

It wasn’t until I took the time to do the deep healing work that I began to love and trust myself. My well was filled with my tears over the years. And along the way I’ve learned so much, about mother-pain, mother hunger, mother wounds. Call it what you will, so many women carry them around, bleeding internally, wondering why they can’t get their shit together.

Have you dealt with your mother’s mothering injuries? Or do they still live inside of you? Do you have some healing to do? Can I help you to do so?

Here’s the thing. Your story doesn’t have to look anything like mine. Whether your mom is alive or passed, whether she was addicted, or absent. Critical or negligent. Maybe she just had to work full-time, leaving you with caretakers you didn’t feel comfortable with. Whether those wounds in your heart were created when you were a tiny girl, or are happening now, because you wish your mom could know who you really are, instead of who she thinks you should be. Maybe you’re mothering your mother now, because of aging, or illness, and sometimes secretly find yourself resentful or exhausted. Add to that the guilt and shame you feel about feeling resentful or exhausted.

No matter the ache, the healing path is the same.

You must connect with the wee one inside of you and love her with all of your might. You must become your own number one protector, your own nurturer and trustworthy guide.

Mother yourself with the tender, loving acceptance and adoration you didn’t get from her.

After all, first we were daughters, and daughters we will always be.

How we have been mothered determines so much of who we are and how we live. And also how we hold ourselves back.

I’m glad you’re here, and I invite you to join me on this healing path, as we reconcile pieces of ourselves, and turn our tears to the well, so that others may come thirsty, and drink.

My dear, fellow-daughter. Let’s alchemize this mother ache, these injuries. Let’s heal.