Mother’s Day Is Hard for Some of Us

Being a mom to these two is my greatest joy.

For those not observing Mother’s Day today—I see you. I’m right there with you.

I have a very complicated relationship with my mom. I love her, I have incredible gratitude for her, but it’s never been easy.

Last year, after 40 years of putting others first and never fully taking care of myself, I finally took the courageous steps to begin working with a therapist for my childhood and adulthood trauma.

As a result of being the eldest daughter to two emotionally immature parents, I became self-reliant, hyper-vigilant, a HSP, an empath, and a fawner who did as they were told and could never ask for help. Because if I did, it became a problem.

Growing up in LA—where a 20-mile commute equated to 2 hours in traffic, my dad was always either commuting to and from work, working, or also being at the receiving end of her anger. My mom also worked full time, but she was always angry about something, and frequently yelled at us kids for the most mundane things—not eating all of our dinner, not completing the daily chore checklist that she required of us to her satisfaction.

I remember at 4 years old being so scared of getting into trouble for leaving the backyard screen door open. (She’d yell, “The flies are coming in!” anytime a door was open for longer than 2 seconds.) To keep the sliding door as closed as possible, I squeezed my small frame between the door from inside the house to the backyard (one leg in, one leg out). But the door was jammed, so I yanked it as hard as my little arms could, and in doing so sliced my forehead open and all I could see was the blood rushing down covering my eyes. I still have that scar today.

When I was in 4th grade, I realized that I lost one of the gold studded earrings I was wearing during recess. I was so scared of upsetting her I spent what felt like hours with one of the teacher’s assistants, combing the playground in search of the earring. We didn’t find it, and when I went home and told my mom that I lost it (with tears in my eyes), instead of being understanding and consoling me, she’d yell at me things like, “This is why I told you to be careful with your things! You always lose things!”

When we really misbehaved we were punished with a smacking from a 1.5-foot piece of PVC pipe. It wasn’t so much the hits that scared me, it was her face, chasing us around the house threatening us with this ”weapon” that was so traumatizing.

I learned that in order to stay safe, I had to be the “good daughter”, and that meant getting good grades while performing at my high school’s theatrical productions and writing for the school newspaper. At 16, while taking AP classes and all the extracurriculars, I worked part time at my local skateboard shop. I began acting around that time, too, and was cast in local TV commercials and appearances on teen game shows. I moved out of my parents house shortly after graduating. I studied communications at a college with an exceptional journalism program. By the time I was 18 years old, I was already a published writer for a major regional newspaper. I was 21 when my first cover story was published in a now-defunct fashion magazine.

I had been programmed to be an overachiever. Every “achievement” kept her satisfied enough that she’d brag about it to her friends, co-workers, and highly competitive siblings. Staying “busy” and accomplished kept me safe and away from condescending insults.

When my brother tragically died at 22 years old, I was just 25. My parents were (rightfully so) heartbroken and mentally unstable. I became the parent to my parents, regulating their emotions, being the one who made sure they ate meals and got some sleep. I fawned, just as I had done as a kid to avoid upsetting her; I was constantly entertaining them in hopes of bringing some joy back into their lives. At the time, I had to be the strong one; there was no emotional space for me to fully grieve him with them. But after two years passed, I was emotionally exhausted. I made a huge life and career shift, and moved to New York and enrolled into the Culinary Institute of America. Moving completely across the country was my way of setting boundaries, quite literally.

Fast-forward a decade and a half, and I’m finally doing the work. I’m on my journey of healing with self-love, self-care, and self-parenting my inner child. I’m learning how to create healthy boundaries with my mom for self-preservation. Instead of resenting her, I have empathy for her, as I now realize that she has unresolved trauma of her own. The parenting that I received from her was what she received from her mom; I imagine worse. And that’s heartbreaking.

But I’m also breaking those ancestral cycles by loving, caring, and parenting my two sweet, adorable rescue dogs in all the ways I didn’t get as a kid, or even as an adult. And I think that’s the one great thing I will, in fact, celebrate today. ❤️‍🩹