Grieving the Astonishing Lies Told to Me by My Mother Wound

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The only way out is through.

Robert Frost

My mother wound needed to be addressed most urgently on my healing journey. It was a tough pill to swallow that many parts of my personality weren’t my personality but the residual of this wound. It was so hard to fathom that when I could finally hear my spirit nudging me to address my mother wound, I was surprised that it wasn’t anger I felt towards my mom but pain. Pain that ultimately resurfaced when my mind finally connected with my spirit. 

I sat at my kitchen table thinking of my mother, but through the eyes of myself as a child. It was almost like I was transported back to that age, feeling the emptiness of her physical presence again, fearing that it was something I had done. Something I could’ve done better. 

I felt the shame of my little arms becoming fatigued at needing to shake off numb adult arms. The panic of every footstep heard in the hallway or knock on the door, just knowing that one day would inevitably be the day I’d never see my family again. 

I felt betrayed by the one person in the world who was supposed to love me unconditionally. What had happened to those once loving eyes, and warm embrace? I relived the pain of feeling like my existence was a burden on her. 

Tears streamed down my face, creating puddles on the table. The sound of my tears collecting in a pool from my chin snapped me back into reality. That is drug addiction, my rational brain explained. While the thought provided comfort in the present, the little girl inside me couldn’t catch her breath through the onslaught of tears. 

This hurts; I yelled out loud without caring who could hear me or how crazy I would sound. I felt another nudge from my spirit to keep going deeper into my mother wound; the only way out is through.

The tears I cried weren’t tears that belonged to my present reality but to the little girl inside me who had suppressed them. The little girl who had been controlling my emotions in a valiant effort never to have to feel those things again. 

As years of memories resurfaced, I continued to cry for hours without letting up on the intensity of the tears that collected in front of me. The puddle on the table began to overflow onto my lap, soaking through my pants, finding its final collection spot on the floor. As much as I wanted it to end, I pushed myself to keep going, every moment draining more life from me than the last. 

At last, the tears began to slow, and I left the table to crawl into the fetal position on my couch. I felt utterly drained, as though I had nothing left in me, but the healing of my mother wound had only begun. 

Your mother wound is why you’ve allowed yourself to believe you don’t want children. Again old memories surfaced of young and innocent me before any of the happenings took place—loving, teaching, playing mother. I loved playing the mother but joy was stripped from me when my innocence was taken. My mother had failed to protect me, and the pain convinced me it was easier not to want children than to do the same. The years of abuse and neglect that followed reinforced the idea that I would never be a mother. 

As I ignored my mother wound and began living life for myself in adulthood, I became almost addicted to the lifestyle. Never having to worry about anyone but myself, never having to worry about someone else being hungry; it was all about me. This grew into a selfishness that kept me from caring about anything and, for the most part, anyone. 

I learned to hurt others before they could ever hurt me. I honestly think I was so self-absorbed that the fact that others had feelings never even dawned on me. It was a self-deprecating, self-sabotaging spiral so I could live out the story I had told myself; I wasn’t cut out to be a mother. 

Addressing my mother wound was by far one of the most complex wounds I had to address. But as I allowed myself to grieve, a feeling of catharsis overcame me. I was sad that I tried to convince myself I wasn’t cut out to be a mother. I was even more sad that I chose partners I wouldn’t ever want to reproduce with to live out that story. 

I had no idea how deep my mother wound was, but I knew this was only the beginning of this part of my healing journey. For weeks, I cried oceans worth of tears as I sorted out my mother wound and hated it. But my spirit often reminded me that the only way out is through. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be worth it in the end.