The Mother Wound: The Women We Never Knew
Like most women, my relationship with my mother has always been complicated. Admittedly, there were many good times. Our disagreements rarely escalated into the dramatic, with the slamming doors, raised voices, and tearful nights being relatively rare in our household. In the grand scheme of things, I know I was fortunate—never kicked out, never criticized for my weight or style, and never vilified for the choices I made in my relationships. And yet, as I reflect on our relationship, I can’t deny the painful periods that marked my experience of feeling unheard, unseen and misunderstood.
As I’ve aged, a clearer picture has emerged—not only of my feelings but also of hers. My mother weathered her growing pains and awkward teenage years in a different era, trying to protect me from her mistakes. Her intentions were admirable, but as any teenage girl can attest, seeing your mother as the young woman she once was is challenging. I often failed to recognize my grandmother in the stories my mother shared about her childhood. By the time I came to know my grandmother, she had transformed into a gentler version of her former self, a shadow of the formidable woman she once was.
Looking back at my mother’s graduation pictures, the woman I see is almost unrecognizable. Yes, I see traces of her in her eyes—fewer wrinkles, a nose I know so well—but I never truly knew the young woman who wore that cap and gown. I realized that I had never taken the time to connect with her as anything more than my mother.
Last year, I decided to gift myself a “reconnecting with your inner child” workshop. After a decent amount of therapy and soul-searching, I thought I was finally ready to embark on this journey. I was not. We were asked to visualize walking alongside our inner child during one particularly painful exercise. Mine was stubborn and refused to let me hold her hand. As I stood there frozen, my younger self dashed ahead, grabbing the hands of my mother’s inner child. They danced away into the trees while I stood slack-jawed and deflated, watching our little selves unite.
In that moment, I saw a sadness in my mother that I could not comprehend, tempered by an unmistakable joy at seeing our past selves embrace. It took me days to process what had happened, grappling with the feeling that I had somehow failed in that exercise. But then, a friend from the workshop shared her experience, revealing that she felt genuine compassion for her mother’s inner child, a sentiment she had never extended toward her mother. That statement struck me deeply.
For most of my life, I had viewed my mother solely as the life-giver, the one who imposed rules and the voice on the other end of the line wishing me a happy birthday. I had neglected to see her as a person—someone who once navigated her own childhood and teen years, who had dreams and disappointments. I failed to understand the sacrifices she made to ensure our lives were better, the traumas she endured, and the victories she celebrated.
My mother wasn’t perfect; she couldn’t be. She was, after all, human. In failing to recognize her as a fully realized person with her own layers of experience, I missed out on so much of who she was and who she had been before time etched its stories into her being.
It dawned on me that I never had the honor of knowing my mother at my age or at any age beyond the role of “mom.” Perhaps this is the great tragedy—not just for me, but for many who find themselves lost in the roles we assign to one another. With each passing day, I hear my mother’s words slipping from my lips, the very phrases I once hated coming to life in my own voice. Yet now, I feel their truth.
If given the opportunity to go back in time and share a cup of coffee with anyone, it would be with her—at any age before she became “just” my mother. To know her in her youth, to share laughter and dreams, to bridge the gap that years have created between us—that would be the greatest gift of all. I like to think we could have been friends.