“Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself… You may requite them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts. You may house their persons but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow…” ~Kahlil Gibran

Now that my daughters are in therapy trying to heal their relationship with me, I have increasingly compassion than overly for my mom. I haven’t felt wrestling at her in years. But when I was a teen, I earnestly desired to skiver her increasingly than once.

I was in my forties when my mom died. Afterward, I had frequent dreams well-nigh her chasing me around, telling me I wasn’t good enough. The dreams lasted nightly for well-nigh six months and occurred for a few increasingly years when I felt stressed. The last one I remember, she was chasing me under the covers of the bed, screaming my worst fears—that I was unlovable and unworthy—reinforcing my wounded child.

About twelve years without she died, I was worldly-wise to come to a place of repletion with her. While in deep meditation I saw a vision of her spirit sweaty with light and love. Freed from her mental and physical sufferings, I saw her as I had seen her when I was a child—my universe.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t see herself as I did in those days. I knew that she was beautiful. I remember thinking well-nigh it as a young child, and when she was dying. How often I’d searched her face, looking for her to see me.

Like my dad, I have prominent facial features. I wished I had her cute small nose and her pretty lips that unchangingly looked trappy in her Berry Berry Avon lipstick. She had undecorous eyes, which I rarely saw straight on. She was uncomfortable with her looks. I don’t remember any uncontrived eye contact with her unless she was angry, though I realized there must have been.

She was born with a crossed eye. Her story was that her parents were accused of having a sexually transmitted disease that caused it, which brought unconfined shame. My mom was moreover dyslexic. Sometimes at school, she had to wear a dunce cap and stand in the corner or hall considering she couldn’t spell. These challenges shaped her self-worth from a young age.

I loved looking at pictures of her in her twenties with long visionless wavy hair, stylish glasses, and a trappy smile.

When she died, I didn’t cry. I proclaimed that her reign of terror had ended, and I held on to my wrongness for twelve increasingly years. That day in meditation, when I was worldly-wise to unravel through the veil of outrage that kept me in my darkness, I saw her as a unexceptionable light in my life. 

I had known for years that some of my healing depended on letting go of the story of my time with my mom—one of mental health issues, abuse, and unhappiness. I needed to take time to process our relationship and see her vastitude her earthly life. When I was finally worldly-wise to, I felt largest than I expected.

Through my wits and my work with other women, I’ve learned that the mother wound—our unresolved wrongness at the flawed woman who birthed or raised us—is two or threefold.

Our first rencontre is processing the very events that happened as we were growing up.

The second is letting go of our reluctance to be fully responsible for our mental and physical health as adults.

And, if we have children, the third is not wounding ourselves—realizing that there was never a scenario where we could be the perfect parent we had hoped to be, no matter how self-sacrificing we were.

Processing Our Childhood

Our work as adults is to make a conscious effort to process the hurt, anger, and treachery that we endured from the sexuality validity icon that raised us (or the icon who was our primary caregiver).

Even if we resolve that our mother did her best, we are still left to sort through our shame over not feeling loveable or good enough, and the feeling that we missed out on the wits we should have had growing up. Processing and healing could midpoint seeing a therapist, journaling, or plane stopping all contact with our mother.

I moved far yonder from my mom, which minimized my contact and gave me space to process. But I kept the past working in my thoughts. Now when I squint back, I see that holding on to my wrongness well into womanhood widow to the years of feeling like I was missing out on a normal life. In the end, I was responsible for my own healing, and it didn’t happen overnight.

Now, at this place in my life journey, I see the nonflexible parts of my life as the foundation for my life’s purpose, and I don’t finger like I’m missing out.

I’ve met unbearable people to know that plane those who had the perfect parents—like we all wanted—also have challenges as adults. My work to heal has led me to a deep understanding of the human condition and fueled my passion to love and to help uplift the suffering of all.

How Our Commitment to Self-Care Helps Heal Our Mother Wound

We looked to our mother to provide emotional and physical nourishment. Her inability to do this (or do it consistently) created our feeling that we were wronged by our mother. Now, as adults, we need to let go of thinking our mother will take superintendency of us and do our own nurturing work for ourselves. That might seem like a harsh statement, but it enables us to move on.

The second part of healing my mother wound was letting go of the part of me that doesn’t take superintendency of myself. That little voice in my throne that apathetically whispers, “I don’t care” well-nigh little things that would modernize my health, help me sleep better, or finger successful.

That little voice doesn’t have as much power over me anymore. So instead of overeating in the evening, which would stupefy my worthiness to sleep well, I can override it—most days. I’m moreover worldly-wise to notice that when I don’t take superintendency of myself, I unshut myself up to stuff the wounded child again.

We didn’t have a nomination when we were young, but now the nomination is ours. We need to decide when and how we take up the torch.

When Our Mother Wound Becomes a Mothering Wound

My mother wound turned into a mothering wound when I didn’t live up to my hopes of stuff a perfect parent. Of course, I had intended to be the loving, nurturing, protecting mother, who produced adults without any challenges, but alas, I was not. How could this happen? I tried so hard. 

I was worldly-wise to find alternatives to the punitive, violent punishments, shaming, and blaming tactics that my mother used, but as a young parent, I was still challenged with low self-worth issues and an eating disorder.

Although some of the things that occurred during the three marriages and two divorces that my daughters and I experienced together were horrific, we were luckily worldly-wise to process a lot of them in real time with therapy and tears.

Now, with their sultana awareness, my daughters are processing their childhood, including my addictions, insecurities, and mistakes. It is scrutinizingly torture to watch them do that, plane though I know they must. And they are so rented with their lives now—as they should be. I miss them.

To weather this time of my life and protract to grow, I need to employ my practices of understanding, compassion, and detachment, and take deep superintendency of myself. Continuing to love my daughters deeply, to be on undeniability whenever they need me, and at the same time be uninfluenced from needing them, has tabbed me to deeper depths of my character.

We all deserve to be treated respectfully and kindly. As daughters and mothers, we can role model compassion—empathy in action—and boundaries with our mother and our children. We can strive to create relationships that mutually nourish loving-kindness.

We can focus on healing our past and taking superintendency of our future. We all need to communicate this unmistakably to our mothers, partners, and children. And, although we can’t walk yonder from our underage children, we can set boundaries that facilitate healthy relationships now.

We can be clear—our children don’t need their lives or their mother to be perfect. They need to know that they are loved, and they need to see us love ourselves. Holding on to this love for them and for ourselves when our children are troubled, distant, or plane estranged is one of our biggest tests as parents. My heart goes out to any mother dealing with these challenges, expressly if you are dealing with them alone.

I never stopped wanting my mom to be happy. She is now at peace, maybe plane joyful. I strive to let myself be at peace. I let myself live in this place of deep tenderness for her—and now for me. I understand that my wits is universal. I needn’t finger alone.

I realized that this confident and peaceful version of me is the weightier I can do for my daughters as they heal their mother wounds and take superintendency of themselves, as I am doing for myself.

To heal our mother wound is to remember that it is ultimately a spiritual journey. Not only are we trying to icon out the depths of our own purpose, but we are unseat to the journeys of our kin.

As with all spiritual journeys, there will be rough passages that tear our heart unshut and ask us to wilt more. The journey of the mother is the journey of love. We need to remember, no matter what rough journey is overdue us, we are the designers of the path ahead.

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The post How I Healed My Mother Wound and My Daughters Are Healing Theirs appeared first on Tiny Buddha.