what happens to mothers and daughters?

I wrote this in my notes app when my daughter was 9 months old and it’s been sitting in there since. I didn’t know if I’d ever share this and if I did plan to share it, I told myself it would be when these thoughts were fully formed and clear. I realize now that my thoughts won’t be fully formed and clear for a while.

While absolutely awful, all this AI stuff is kind of liberating. I used to spend hours and hours on one Substack piece to try to get it to sound perfect and smart and digestible and now, AI can do that for you. It’s now more clear who is using AI and who is not, simply based on how polished or unpolished things sound. How many grammar or spelling errors there may be. So here I am taking advantage of that.

I’m putting this behind a paywall because it’s way too personal and way too vulnerable. Sharing your deepest feelings can be scary, especially to a bunch of strangers but especially to those you know and especially on the internet and especially when it comes to motherhood.

There are so many incredible, raw, brave voices who tell motherhood like it is but honestly when I have conversations in real life or see depictions of it online (on my public profile included! My finsta on the other hand…) it still is packaged up as positive as possible. This piece (and most of my pieces on motherhood) is for those interested in the former. This piece is for those who, too, often reflect on the relationship between mothers and daughters.

I’m laying next to my daughter while she sleeps and it’s been one of those weeks where in the middle of the night, for no apparent reason, she wakes up and when she does wake up, eyes still closed, immediately scurries over to me and needs her body next to mine in order to fall back to sleep again.

A part of me is filled with so much love and joy and wonder for this little thing that somehow knows I am her mother — the first person to ever love her and protect her and keep her safe and warm. And another part of me is, well, annoyed that I can’t sleep.

Every time this happens, every time she snuggles her little body next to mine to feel safe enough to sleep again, I just watch her. I watch her tiny fingers reach for me. I watch her eyelids get heavy and finally close. I watch her chest fall up then down. I watch her and I wonder what the hell happens for a mother to no longer see her daughter as her baby anymore. To no longer see her daughter as someone she should be soft and warm and gentle with. And instead see her as someone she needs to be tough, hard and unloving with.

Maybe it’s just me who feels this way but I know so many women — too many — who have such complicated relationships with their moms, while their brothers have it so different.