There’s an old saying that the ones who shape us often leave us scarred. In my case, my complicated relationship with my mom stands as a testament to that paradox. At first glance, my feelings toward her might be painted in the stark colors of resentment. I say, “I hate my mom”—a cry born not of cruelty, but of heartbreak. A cry from someone who was shaped by love so intense it left him vulnerable, yet hardened.
She made me emotionally tough. Too tough. And then she
left—too soon—leaving me to navigate a world I wasn’t fully prepared for.
She was the definition of unconditional love. Not
just in words or gestures, but in presence, in patience, in the way she made
space for all my flaws and struggles. I now realize how rare that is. I search
for it in every relationship, every interaction, every flicker of affection—and
I come up short. That has made me emotionally guarded, unresponsive even,
because if it’s not like hers, it doesn’t feel real.
The Irony of Love
My mother’s love didn’t just raise me—it defined me.
She saw every part of me, the parts I didn't show the world, and she still
loved me, unconditionally. That kind of complete understanding shaped the way I
experience love today.
Because of her, I’ve become someone who expects to be seen
before allowing others to come close. And because of that, I’m often labeled as
distant, aloof, or even hard to love. But it’s not arrogance. It’s grief in
disguise. It’s emotional armor forged in the absence of the only person who
knew how to truly reach me.
She was the definition of unconditional love—not in grand
declarations, but in silent presence. In her patience. In the way she made
space for my flaws, my fears, my failures. That love became the blueprint for
every future relationship. And because no one has measured up to it, I now find
myself emotionally guarded. I struggle to respond to feelings. I shut down.
Because if it’s not her kind of love, it doesn’t feel real.
And sometimes, in moments of overwhelming frustration, I
still find myself saying, “I hate my mom.” But I know what I really mean is: “I
miss her so much it hurts.”
A World I Wasn’t Ready For
Since she left, I’ve felt like a stranger in this world. An
adult, yes—but one who never stopped needing her. Her voice, her guidance, her
emotional presence was my anchor. She stood by me when no one else did. She
knew what I was feeling without me saying a word. She was my emotional support
system, the one who made life feel survivable.
Without her, the world feels colder, harsher, heavier. I
find myself alone even in crowded rooms. Surrounded, yet unsupported.
Everything feels more complicated now, and the truth is, I’m still not ready to
face this world without her.
The Void of Early Departure
What makes it worse is how early she left. I wasn’t
done needing her, and I don’t think I ever will be. Losing her wasn’t just a
personal loss—it was the collapse of my emotional foundation.
There are days I wonder what could’ve been. I wonder if I
could’ve helped her, healed her, loved her more softly. I think about how stern
she sometimes was, and now I believe that sternness was her own pain speaking
through love. And I wish I’d seen that sooner.
Her early departure left behind a silence that echoes in
every part of me. I face the world now with an ache—equal parts strength and
sorrow. The love she gave me made me resilient. But the way she left, and the
things left unsaid, left me vulnerable in ways I can’t always explain.
The hurt of her departure intensifies the conflict within me: the same force that made me strong also left me grappling with feelings I cannot fully understand or express.
A Heart Divided: Love and Regret Intertwined
On this Mother’s Day, I’m overwhelmed—not just with grief,
but with the complicated beauty of love that continues, even after loss. My
mother knew me better than anyone. Even her harshest lessons came from a place
of protection. And now, I miss her in ways that words can’t capture.
God, I miss her in ways words can’t capture. There are
conversations we never had. Apologies I never made. Moments I took for granted
that now haunt me in silence. These unreconciled feelings live inside me like
weight on my chest—heavy, constant, and deeply personal.
Her love was rare, real, and unwavering. It didn’t depend on
what I did or didn’t do. And because of that, I now chase that same feeling in
others—and never quite find it. In its absence, I’ve grown distant. I don’t
know how to open up anymore. If it’s not like her love, I don’t trust it. And
that makes me retreat. That makes me shut down.
A Mother's Day Reflection
Today, while the world celebrates with flowers, breakfast
trays, and heartfelt cards, I sit with a storm of emotions. I still struggle
with that lingering feeling—“I hate my mom.” But I know now it’s only
part of the story. It’s the scar tissue over a deep, enduring love.
This Mother’s Day, I choose to honor her not by silencing my
complex feelings, but by accepting them. I’m learning that healing doesn’t come
from denying pain—it comes from holding space for it. Her love, her strength,
her early absence—they are all threads in the fabric of who I am.
I whisper a quiet thanks for the love she gave. I mourn the
gentleness I still crave. I honor the woman who gave me everything, even when
she didn’t know how to say it out loud.
She may be gone, but her love is still here—etched into who
I am, tangled into everything I do. And even in the silence she left behind, I
still hear her love echoing.
