The Mother Wound: Finding Healing in Acceptance

'What a mother does for you out of obligation vs what a mother does for you because she wants to. The taste of a cup of coffee made from obligation vs the taste of a cup of coffee made. Did you raise me because you wanted to or did you raise me because you had to, because I was in your home and you thought, I have to put food in every mouth under this roof. Did you look at me with love or did you look at me. Did you ever look at me? Did you ever see me? Did you want to? Do you want to still? If I asked you to love me would you laugh? Would you ask me why? Would you tell me to not ask such stupid questions? Would you go to bed and wonder to yourself, why does she think I don’t love her? I’ve done everything for her, I’ve bathed her I’ve clothed her I’ve fed her I kept a roof over her head. Isn’t that love? Do you even know? Do you know what love looks like? Did your mother love you? Did she make you coffee? Can you tell me what it tasted like?' ~ Unknown

'Acceptance is a small, quiet room.' ~ Cheryl Strayed

It is May. The kind of day that glows with a yellow light that makes the edges of the world shimmer; crisp and impossibly perfect—the kind of day you conjure in your mind when the February sun beats down on summer-worn skin and you ache to be held by autumn's soft embrace.

It also happens to be Mother's Day.

Fourteen months have passed since I began this book, seventeen since I last spoke to my mother. As I sit to write the final words—to finish what has been an all-consuming part of my life for so many months now—a deluge of tears fall. Tears I do not wipe away. They are the closing act; the final stage of my grieving process. The letting go. The acceptance of what is; of what never was.

Earlier this week I sat on the soft leather couch in my therapist’s office and hugged a cushion to my chest as rain beat steady against the pavers outside his office. We have been working through the years of my childhood that left me most damaged, bringing the trauma of those years to the surface and allowing it to be wholly felt, processed and released. The betrayal. The abuse. The neglect. The abandonment. I have been angry for so long but in this session I tell him I do not feel angry anymore. That I am just—sad.

Tears spilled down my cheeks faster than I can wipe them away and he tells me that after trauma has left the body all that remains is the sadness. That we are left only with the residue of grief; the sorrow of what was taken from us, what we have lost, what we did not receive—may never receive.

I walked out from his office into the greyness of the afternoon and watched leaves drop and swirl along the quiet street and thought of words I once wrote:

'I have buried the suffering of my skin beneath a tattoo of vines; a reminder of seasons change—that this too shall pass and grief will release from my body and collect wherever the leaves go in winter.'

In that moment, grief left my body and I was aware of all that was left: acceptance.

My mother grew up in a time when mental health was misunderstood, when therapy was rare, when familial abuse was often unspoken, when children were seen and not heard, when religion was often wielded as a form of control.

She carried unhealed trauma into her adult life, into her relationships, into her mothering. She became a single parent with no support system as she continued to suffer from unhealed trauma, addictions, and mental health issues.

None of this excuses that which was done to me, or that which I needed and did not receive. None of this justifies the trauma, abuse and pain I suffered. However, I realise now there can also be no blame. For if we are to trace the origin of every wound, how far back must we go? Their mothers? Their mothers’ mothers? How far back will we cast the stone of judgment before we realise the heaviness of it in our hands? And do we really want to spend the rest of our lives carrying the weight of such blame?

I have spent so much of my life casting stones, demanding a validation I realise now I will never receive. I am tired of holding the burden of these stones in my hands. What we did not receive, what we did not deserve to receive—these are things we cannot change. And for most of us, we will go throughout the entirety of our lives with mothers who will never understand the gravity of their own wounds, let alone how those wounds have inflicted damage on their daughters.

What I’ve come to understand through writing this book is that we rarely receive the closure we deserve. We rarely get the answers we seek, the validation we need, the apology we desire, the ending we hope for. Most often all we carry is the pain, the grief— and finally the acceptance. The gripping tight followed by the letting go. The futile wrestle followed by the gentle surrender.

Which is to say, all we really have is our own choice in how we respond: will we break generational cycles, or be broken by them?

As I bring this book to an end what I feel most is sadness knowing I will always feel the grief of someone who is still alive, but no longer alive to me. Someone who gave me life, yet was unable to give me love.

I still do not know where the leaves go in winter any more than I know what to do with this sadness. And maybe there are no answers and maybe there will always be sadness and maybe Mother's Day will get easier and maybe it won't and maybe one day there will be forgiveness but for now maybe it is simply enough to acknowledge the life we have lost; to know joy in the days we have made.

To sit, finally, in that small, quiet room of acceptance.

How wonderful it is to follow a thought
Quietly to its logical end.
I have done this a few times.
But mostly I just stand in the dark field,
In the middle of the world, breathing
In and out ~ Mary Oliver, What is There Beyond Knowing

If you’ve only just joined me, this is the final chapter in an entire book I have published here on Substack, Bless The Daughters: An Examination into the Mother Wound, Inherited Pain, and the Legacies that Shape our Lives. If you’re interested to read more, can I recommend you start here, where it all began?
If you’ve been with me throughout this entire publication of my book—thank you 🧡 I hope reading this book has brought you greater awareness and understanding of the Mother Wound, as well as compassion, grace and forgiveness in your life as you continue on your path to acceptance and healing.
Much love, K xx