Loving the Mother I Finally Saw

Women have a way of giving all of themselves, to their children, their spouses, their parents, their jobs, their communities. We shape our lives around caring, fixing, and making sure everyone is okay. And somewhere along the way, we forget to ask ourselves:

"But am I okay?"

For most of my life, I wasn’t sure how to answer that. I spent my younger years searching for love in all the wrong places, trying to fill a space that had been empty for too long. My mother, though physically present, felt absent in all the ways that mattered. She let me do whatever I wanted as a teenager, and without guidance, my choices were reckless, my relationships difficult, and my sense of self-worth nonexistent.

At least, that’s how I saw it back then.

Then came a shift I never expected, becoming her caretaker.

For the last ten years of her life, my mother’s health declined. A lifetime of smoking, of not taking care of herself, had caught up with her. I moved her closer to me, and suddenly, our roles reversed. I was now responsible for her finances, groceries, doctor’s appointments, medications, hiring caregivers, everything. She was demanding of my time, and there were days I felt like I was being pulled in a hundred different directions. I had my own family, my own children to raise, and yet here I was, mothering the woman who had once mothered me.

And in those years, something changed, not just in her, but in me.

For the first time, I began to see the things she had done for me in her own way, things I had been too blind to see when I was only focused on what I didn’t have. I had been so caught up in my anger and longing for the mother I wished she had been, that I missed the ways she had loved me the best she knew how. She wasn’t perfect, but neither was I.

And so, I let go of resentment and embraced understanding.

I saw her not as the woman I had built up in my mind, but as the woman she truly was, flawed, yes, but also strong, funny, and in many ways, deeply loving. No, I would not have made the same choices she did, but I could love her anyway. Forgiveness came not as a single moment, but as a slow unfolding, a quiet acceptance of what was and what could never be.

And in forgiving her, I found myself.

I discovered that I am not defined by the love I didn’t recognize before, but by the love I choose to give, to my children, my grandchildren, my husband, my friends. And most importantly, to myself.

I love the woman I have become. I love myself. Not in a superficial, fleeting way, but in a deep, soul-level acceptance. I am a fierce daughter, a devoted mother, a strong wife, a loving Grammy, and a steadfast friend.

So, to the women who give and give until there’s nothing left, to those who carry guilt for the struggles of others, who feel the weight of fixing everything, who forget to ask themselves “Am I okay?”…this is your reminder:

You are more than what you do for others.
You are worthy of love, even from yourself.
And it is never too late to choose yourself, to love yourself, just as you are.

💛 Let’s start today, with some “badassery” (quote from another fierce friend!")