The Mother I Never Really Had

Navigating Grief, Healing Generational Wounds & Becoming the Mom I Needed

💐 Trigger warning: death, grief, and pregnancy loss.

This is my first Mother’s Day without my mom—and it’s left me with a wave of conflicted emotions. Not because we were close. But because for most of my life, I’ve been grieving a mother who was alive.

No one really talks about that kind of grief—the grief of growing up without the connection, nurture, or safety a mother is supposed to bring. The grief of watching others share laughs and hugs with their moms, while wondering why your experience looked so different. The grief of longing for something… someone… that you didn’t have, but desperately needed.

💔 A Motherless Childhood—While She Was Still Alive

For years, I imagined what having that kind of mom would feel like—the ones you see on TV or hear your friends gush about. A mom you could call when something great happened, or fall into when the world crumbled. That wasn’t my experience.

My parents divorced when I was 8. My mom had visitation rights every other weekend, but that schedule was never consistent. Sometimes, we were the kids waiting on the steps… and she never came. It wasn’t until she remarried and had my youngest sister that our time with her became steady. But even then, the emotional connection never did.

I was told, like many of us are, “She did the best she could.” And maybe she did. But her best wasn’t what I needed—and both of those things can be true. I learned how to survive. I created early boundaries to protect myself. I became self-sufficient, even when all I wanted was to feel seen and held.

Mother’s Day always felt complicated. I often felt ashamed when others put their moms on a pedestal—because I didn’t. I loved my mother, yes, but I didn’t have a motherly relationship with her. I had a shell of what I wished for.

🧠 Living Grief & the Breaking Point

Eventually, I stopped hoping the relationship would change. I accepted what it was: casual, distant, without expectation. But that didn’t mean I didn’t feel the absence.

Even when I lived with her as a teenager, our bond didn’t deepen. We had music. That was our one connection. She had a wide music palette—and I’m grateful I inherited that from her.

But even our biggest life moments felt indifferent.

When I was 17 and became pregnant, I expected my dad’s disappointment. I didn’t expect my mom’s reaction to be so intense. She was devastated—angry, disappointed, cold. I remember her taking me to buy maternity clothes. Then weeks later, I miscarried at 15 weeks. Alone in a hospital bed overnight, I endured something deeply traumatic. I returned to her house the next day sore, sad, and emotionally gutted.

There were no hugs. No questions. No softness. Just a reminder that she had wasted $100 on clothes and how much her insurance had to pay for the miscarriage.

That was when I stopped wishing.

🌷 A Shift After Death

Now that she’s passed, there’s been a shift. A surprising relief—like I’ve been carrying a burden I didn’t even know was still there. I thought I had already grieved the relationship I never had. But this grief feels different. It’s not just about what was missing—it’s about everything that never could be.

And yet, even in this layered grief, I feel gratitude.

👩‍👧 The Mimi She Became to My Daughter

If there is one thing I will forever be thankful for, it’s the way she showed up for my daughter. My mom may not have known how to mother me, but she was the best Mimi to my daughter.

She poured into her. She showed up. She celebrated her. She built memories that my daughter will carry forever. And for that, I am eternally grateful. Watching their bond grow was healing, in ways I never expected. Because even if she couldn’t give that version of herself to me—she gave it to my daughter.

And sometimes… that has to be enough.

🌱 Becoming the Mother I Needed

Breaking the cycle hasn’t been a clear-cut journey. Honestly, it wasn’t until recently that I even realized I was doing it. But I see it now in the way I mother my daughter.

I give her affection. Hugs, kisses, cuddles—daily. Even when it’s uncomfortable for me. Even when it doesn’t come naturally. I tell her I love her. I make sure she feels it. I involve her in conversations. I give her space to express her emotions. I let her be a part of the journey. I want her to know that she’s seen, heard, and safe with me.

Healing has meant looking inward. Unlearning patterns. Acknowledging wounds. Building self-love. Setting boundaries. Giving myself grace when I feel like I’m slipping.

And it’s working.

🕊️ What I Want You to Know

Grief isn’t black and white. It’s a spectrum. And you can feel grief and gratitude at the same time. You can mourn what you never had while celebrating what you do.

If you’re someone grieving a mother who wasn’t really a “mom”… your feelings are valid. Whether she’s still here or already gone, the absence of what you needed is real.

Healing is nonlinear. Sometimes, it looks like tears at odd hours. Sometimes, it looks like standing at a grave with flowers in your hand and peace in your heart.

I’ll be honoring her this Mother’s Day by showing up for my daughter. With flowers, with stories, and maybe a few tears. But mostly—by living with compassion, breaking cycles, and doing my best to be the mother I needed… and that she still deserves.

Because our truth is ours to hold—and ours to rewrite. 💛