I’m writing a series this week to fill in some of the gaps in my story that I love the most but have sometimes blogged about the least. So far we’ve covered:
The one where I’m a working mom.
Losing a mother doesn’t happen in a moment. It takes years to realize what’s gone.
It takes missed birthdays and graduations and weddings and then your first baby is born and she isn’t there for it.
You can wake up one day and discover you’re 39 and all you want for your birthday is your mom. The person who’s obligated to love you. The person who has to care about your bad hair days and your worries about your son’s bowel movements. The person who must care about every particular detail about how your daughter ate the beans and rice and how you couldn’t believe it after how picky your sons were.
The one person in the world who cares about you more than you care about you.
That person has been missing from my life since one week after I turned 18.
But she was gone and in hospital from the time I was sixteen.
We never talked about sex or marriage or what love feels like. She never told me her childbirth stories or her secret dreams. I never got to see the inside version of her, only the parental perspective. She was the mom and I was the daughter. We were never just two women together talking about life.
And anyone who’s lost a mother – whether she was emotionally unavailable or left or died like mine did – they know that the ache never goes away. Some days it’s hardly noticeably and others it comes roaring back at the most unexpected moments.
Zoe lies in bed next to me and strokes my cheek with her tiny hand, three of the five fingernails painted bright purple. And she whispers, “I so glad you back, mama.” And the stab in my rib cage is so violent that I have to hold onto her tiny hand like a life preserver for all this homesick missing of my own mother.
Lots of those feelings are better tucked up neat and tidy into a box in the spare bedroom where they feel more distant and I feel more immune. And most days being a mother means you’re just hanging on for dear life as the ride bumps and batters you along. There’s hardly a moment for a hot meal, let alone deep introspection about what it’s like to mother without a mother.
But some days, when I want to make sense of my story and the story I’m writing for my kids I go and sit with that box.
I slowly peel back the tape and unfold the corners and look down into what I’ve lost. I let myself feel it. I just sit there and let myself feel my feelings. I might be alone and at home sometimes when it happens. But sometimes it’s when I’m in the car, other days I might just be hanging out at the Swiss Bakery tapping away at the computer when the box opens and all those big aches comes out into the open and I let them.
I let the sadness come because it’s part of the beauty. This legacy of a lost mother is part of what’s been crafted into my storyline and I wouldn’t unwrite the after just so I could fix the before.
The after is full of Peter and Michigan and family who’ve adopted me like their own into America and the midwest and Thanksgiving. The after is blazing freaking gorgeous lit up by the lives of Jackson, Micah and Zoe and them I wouldn’t give back. Not for any kind of do-over.
We all live in some version of the after, don’t we?
We all have grown up and become more chipped and cracked along the way. Bits of what we believed or loved cracked off rough shod and thoughtless. And there are holes that no person or putty or promise or chocolate cake can fill. There are some holes that become part of us just like that cowlick that won’t ever lie down and behave or the scar on your left leg from the time you were tripped and fell at your best friend’s house right in front of the boy you were trying to impress.
I see your scars.
I see those hot throbbing lines you try to hide or disguise or ignore.
But they’re all part of you. It’s OK that they ache. It’s OK that they make you feel the feelings you wish you could box away. They are as much you as your eye color and I love looking right into your eyes.
Go ahead, tell me your story. Show me your box. I am not afraid of scars.
I lost my mother, too, at age 3. I read the book Motherless Daughters by Hope Edelman, and it helped me understand a lot of what I was feeling as I had kids of my own. I also got to participate in Listen to Your Mother this year, and I wrote an essay on understanding who my mother was in relation to me. I feel you, sister. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=teJMVnoYssQ
I haven’t read that book, but I have read (and re-read) Motherless Mothers, also by Hope Edelman. There are things written in there that hit me so deeply… things I didn’t even know I was feeling until I read them. Brilliant book!
oh the scars…. when I was in the thick of the battle with a functionally insane parent… for 35 years of my adult life, they were very visible. For years I wished for someone I’d never have, then I realized that my definition of mother was totally different than what I had and that no matter how much I wanted different, I could not change what was. God allowed that situation in my life, and I did not come to understanding- ever while she was alive- all that was there was terminal pain. But I did come to terms with it when I heard this quote from Oswald Chambers: “If you are going to be used by God, he will take you through a multitude of experiences that are not meant for you at all, they are meant to make you useful in his hands, and to enable you to understand what transpires in other souls so that you will never be surprised at what you come across.”
Now I have perspective and the scars are fading and He uses my experience to encourage others in similar situations.
Love that comment, Nancy, from Oswald Chambers. Love how he turns our scars into ways to help his kingdom.
Sharon, I was told that quote in a Bible Study Group in the town where my daughter lives, I was supposed to hear it. It had been 4 years since she had died and I still struggled with understanding the forever question of “Why?” when right in the middle of speaking the speaker dropped this little quote in the middle of her talk. Oh my, now, looking back, hindsight and all, I see how many times my experiences with her were useful in my life in conversations with others to encourage them to keep on going when there seemed to be no value in the struggle.
The scars are the hardest. I come from a mom that is still living, but very much absent. Same with my mother in law. It’s the hardest, deepest hurt- one I deal with everyday and am battling to overcome. Bless you and these words.
oh Ashley, I had to comment- both my mother and MIL were absent in the heart. They died two weeks apart. I just wanted a connection, something that would bond. But that was not to be; it did however make my marriage stronger- we could both see and understand the feelings the other had in our situation. I determined that I would not the the MIL like mine or like my mother. I love my DILs and my SIL and make every effort to show them. We are building relationships every day. May God comfort you in the hurt. N
Ashley….I *GET* it. Your story sounds like I had just written it. The pain has a deep depth , all I know is to be thankful that God himself stands at the bottom of that black hole of pain able to carry me. I will pray for you!
O dear, I’m sorry. I just didn’t think. My eldest son is your age. I’m not only a mother but a grandmother.
What would I do???
Your children are beautiful. You are a beautiful daughter.
I would spend lots of time with your children and do all the things a grandmother would do. Love them to bits. And you. This is what your mother would do.
There is nothing more amazing than seeing a part of your body on your children and grandchildren. We pinch them. Kiss them. Cuddle them to bits and bits and bits.
O dear me. Grandmothers and mothers love their children and they would cling to their daughters and tell them ever how much they love them. I do not but my friends they kiss their daughter’s lips. Kiss Kiss Kiss Kiss Kiss Kiss Kiss Kiss Just cos it’s the right of a mother. You would ever be considered your mother’s child. No matter how old you are.
Can you tell I’m the mothering sort.
is nothing more amazing than to continue the conversationt from the last time a mother and daughter spoke and just catch up from there like the rest of the world did not exist.
I truly am sorry you’ve missed this.
A mother would sleep with you and hold you close no matter how old you are. Mother’s are clingly with their daughters.
Every single picture of your children would be placed in every part of her home as she would be looking at her grandchildren every single moment.
This is called love. Parental love.
I’m truly sorry I was so insensitive.
Thank you Karyn, and I have this in the most amazing mother in law who has filled in so many of those cracks and mothered me in a million ways like her own. So grateful.
This —> But they’re all part of you. It’s OK that they ache. It’s OK that they make you feel the feelings you wish you could box away. They are as much you as your eye color and I love looking right into your eyes —> Just thank you for this.
Beautifully written, and I am so sorry that you lost your mother so young.
Why it is silly to be envious of people – because you never know what they went through to get to where they are.
Even though I have many times wished some things in our relationship were different, I feel so blessed to still have my mother. But my pain in life has come from failed marriages and other areas.
We all have it … What you do with that pain … Rebuild, wallow, learn, dwell … Up to you.
My dad has been absent from my life (and basically my sisters’ and my brother’s as well) for more than eight years. It was his choice. Your last few lines…”But they’re all part of you. It’s OK that they ache. It’s OK that they make you feel the feelings you wish you could box away. They are as much you as your eye color and I love looking right into your eyes”…hit me hard. I have my dad’s eyes. And my children – whom my father has never known, and I’m not sure he ever will – have my eyes. I try not to think of him b/c of the hurt but then I look at my husband and his relationship with his dad and, I’ll admit it, I’m jealous. I don’t have that…even though I used to. I will never understand how my dad thinks or his reasoning for basically re-marrying and then taking her family on as his own while leaving his children behind. How can a parent do that??? Thank you for your words. Although I don’t have my dad, I do have my mom and SHE is a great woman. I also have my stepdad and my dad-in-law, who have told me that they will be that dad I need whenever I need one. And although I’m very grateful for that, it still doesn’t ease that ache completely away.
Lacy – your story sounds similar to mine…my father whom I usually only refer to by his name (Mike) chose another family over his own and my Mama was the glue that held the rest of us together. She had a fatal bicycle accident while I was overseas and it felt like our world had ended. Mike had the chance to pull his family back together but instead he tore it further apart. One of my brothers went to college that year, I became guardian of my sister before I had to go back overseas, and our baby brother. . .that’s who Mike held onto and cut off all communication between him and the rest of us. My family is back together now and Mike is still not a part of any of our lives nor what would be his 3 grandchildren. There are too many days now that I’m a mom that I still question why my mama’s not here…why she was taken way too early. I hurt inside and out that my kids will never feel the love of her arms wrapped around them. Though I don’t wish the pain and hurt in ANY ONE, I’m glad we’re not alone. Thank you ask for writing and sharing your scars… it’s hard to explain these feelings to others.
I love this part: “And there are holes that no person or putty or promise or chocolate cake can fill.” Oh, so true. Only God can. Finally learning that at age 45! Many scars, but so thankful that God has allowed them for a reason… to use them to help others. So sorry for your loss at such an early age. My heart aches for you. xoxo
Only God can create family where family is missing. Only God can send you the love. No one can fully take the place of a mom, but God can send some who are get really close.
And, though I’ve told you before – I love you, Lisa-Jo…because you are simply, Lisa-Jo.
While I have 2 mothers – biological and adoptive – I do not have a mom. My biological mom was too mentally unstable to care for us, and my adoptive mom was cruel, cold, and never satisfied with me as a daughter. To this day, she still masks our relationship to my siblings – though they have talked with me about their own observations of the truth – and grows more distant in her actual relationship with me. It is hard to now have kids, and to experience her growing distance. I also see her insecurity and lack of relationships in her life, and I can see where the pieces come together, but I struggle so much in the continual pain of not having a “mom” choose me.. warts and all. With 3 kids, and 2 of them girls, I just keep holding on tight to God that He will help me love them with a love no mom has given me. I don’t understand it, and it sucks. However, I am so grateful for a husband and friends who have helped me not give up loving others… hard to fit a story into a short comment blurb :)
TL, I think you have the love to give your children right in your heart. You have identified what you missed and this is what is required to love really well. You write that your adoptive mom was cruel, cold and never satisfied with you as a daughter. And there it is right there in those words. Do exactly the opposite. Love unconditionally, be always kind and warm.
And this is hard when it was not given to you, isn’t it? How to always be kind? We get upset with our children and then the dreaded words slip out that were spoken to us, that were probably words spoken to our parents while they grew up that has been passed down through the generations. And the focus in past generations was different for them and they look at us like we sprouted two heads when we say that those words hurt us. They simply don’t understand and don’t wish to. They don’t wish to feel uncomfortable like we do. They struggle against it and mount towering walls of defense that would allow us to touch their hearts with ours. To heal the pain for both.
The gift you have is the rich gift of insight. It is this gift that will allow your own children to flourish and enjoy a happy, emotionally fulfilling life. If your children look at you one day and lack understanding for all you have gone through then you know you have protected them from this grief very well. Then your heart can heal.
TL – Yes, yes, I know, I feel – two mom’s biological and adopted. I long for a day for someone to treat me like I have longed to be treated. I love my daughters more than the world – I try to fill them with love everyday. To the very top… they will always be allowed to come home… I will never turn them away. Just … live with peace – I have given them both to God to take care of …. as He is the ultimate provider. I envision myself in the arms of Christ – rocking me just as I have so longed to be rocked by my mom. Peace be with you.
Oh, Lisa-Jo. I am so sorry for the wounds. I have them too, of course. And texting back and forth with my mama just now — the only one who cares more about me than I care for myself — you have called me to gratitude. Not for a perfect relationship, but for a real one. The gaps and holes and scars of this living all making me and you and us who we are. Thank you for allowing your pain and weakness to be a beacon guiding the way. You are a blessing.
Ashley, love how you write, ‘Not a perfect relationship, but a real one.’ I recently re-read a book written by Steven Covey – The 7 Habits of Highly Successful People. In this book, Steven shares vignettes of family life and describes his parenting goals and also how at times he has fallen short of these goals. What I thought was truly beautiful about Steven’s parenting experiences was that he identified how his imperfect parenting and the affect it would have on his children could be salvaged by simply being real about it and talking this through with his children and letting them know how important they were to him.
When you know that you are loved unconditionally for who you are, it is easier to forgive the mistakes of the one who loves us this way. And this is a rare kind of love it seems. You are so blessed to have this relationship with your mom. I wonder if she too had this relationship with her mom? Or did she simply get that this was an essential component of any healthy relationship?
Curious.
Thanks so much for this post-I am 38, with 3 children as well, and you put into words exactly how I feel each day of my life, since loosing my mom to cancer when I was 17 and she was 47. I also lost my dad when I was 21 to a heart attack, so I have been a complete orphan for 17 years. My mom was in and out of the hospital from when I was 15-on, and she lost her battle 3 weeks into my senior year in high school. I so much long for the adult mother-daughter relationship, and wish so very much that she could know my husband and three children. I wouldn’t trade the life I have right now for anything, but I wish my mom and dad were here to share it with us.
Beautiful post, Lisa Jo. I am a motherless daughter. I, too, lost my mom when I was 18. She fought breast cancer for 5 years. Love this and couldn’t agree more! “I let the sadness come because it’s part of the beauty. This legacy of a lost mother is part of what’s been crafted into my storyline and I wouldn’t unwrite the after just so I could fix the before.”
I haven’t lost my mother so I don’t know. But I have some of those feelings about my daughter having t1 diabetes (dx at 2). The grief ebbs and flows, changing who I am, hopefully making me stronger but also softer.
I lost my mom 26 years ago when I was 14….I just lost my dad 2 years. It is an ache that never goes away. I truly believe I am not the same person I would be if she were alive. You have to grow up fast and learn to handle things on your own. What I wouldn’t give for to have known her to have been there for all of those milestones….and just to be there…when I need her. My daughter often says…I’m so glad your alive…me too.
Your post makes me think of a little girl who lives in my neighborhood. She is 6 years old. Her mother left for hospital when she was about 4 or 5. The day after her mother’s funeral, she stopped by to tell me that her mother had died. Then, she told me how beautiful my garden of flowers were. She was speaking to me with such a purity of heart. I could see the beauty of her spirit in every part of her – the way she spoke with honesty, the lack of fear and confident freedom of physical movement as she rode her bike. The humbleness and kindness in her every word. The beauty of expression in her large round eyes full of unrelenting openness and ability to receive kindness from others.
I was completely humbled in this little girls presence. So astonished I was at her grace of spirit in the face of all she had lost. I told her how sorry I was for her loss. I felt like it wasn’t enough. The words of condolence seemed so inadequate to console this little girl’s loss. It seemed there were no words to convey how truly sorry I felt.
I see this little girl now through my window sometimes and see her strong spirit and her giving heart full of life and love. I admire what she has. What I don’t have. What years far advanced of mine in strength of character and confidence. Then I remind myself of the price paid for the luxury of what she has gained. I remind myself that she has had to grow up instantly and be the rock of strength for everyone she knows. This role she has taken on willingly. The role of an adult.
And I wonder how this will affect her life. I wonder about the times when she needs her absent mom, if she will remain strong. I wonder if this strength will continue and I worry about her. But, she does have a grandmother who is now mothering her. This will not be the same, but I hope it will be just enough to foster this little girl’s growth into a spectacular woman.
And, if this is enough, this little girl will grow to be the woman I long to be – one full of beauty and grace…
Wow! So eloquently written. I thank you because it hit me close to home. My mom died after having me. I was born into sorrow and tryed to help others heal. Being a teen was the hardest. I realized what I never had. I was vulnerable without a mom’s support system put me at risk every moment. I met my husband and he struggles to be sensitive and loving. His upbringing was abusive and cold. I did my best to be an example of strength, and gratitude with every breath to honor the gift of life she gave me. The alternative of bitterness and misery is a choice I stay clear from. I think my sister has found peace she no longer looks at me so angry. She was twelve when mom passed. Dad died when I was 24. I thank him everyday for the appreciation he gave me. I’m almost 38. I try to mother myself so I won’t pretend I don’t need anything because I do. My parental relationships exist in a spiritual sense where I intuitively wonder about the guidance I may need or the comfort I may sporadically yearn for. I have much to give and represent the gift of love and survival. We all do.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W-Z2O9LNZOA
“Losing a mother doesn’t happen in a moment. It takes years to realize what’s gone.”
That describes how I feel perfectly. I lost my mom, unexpectedly, when I was 10. We went to sleep, and when we woke up, she was gone. She was 40 years old and perfectly healthy. I grieved her absence when I went to college and again when I got married. But none of that compares to raising a child. My son is now three, and I’ve just started blogging regularly about being a mommy-less mommy. This morning I was writing about ways to incorporate her in our lives. With my really amazing mother-in-law and stepmom, I’m worried that my son won’t know my mother at all. And I’m discovering that there are many young mothers like me who feel just as confused, just as lost, so to speak. Writing is helping, and I am so happy to connect with someone else who understands. Thank you.
Your words are so beautifully put together. Even with how well you express the loss of a mother, the words of one of your commenters resonated with me. “She never chose me.” Those words are my words. I value you taking your box and opening it up. That is what I want for other women. To stop hiding their box under the bed, unseen and pretend it’s not there. They can open it, experience it, grow and then move on. And every once in awhile open the box as needed. As noted by one of your other commenters, God has given us the box.
Tears. I too lost my mom when I was barely a woman. I was 22 and 5 months pregnant when she succombed after a 16 month battle with cancer. Most days I’m fine. Then there are the times where in a flash it’s like it happened all over again and I’m wrecked. I miss her so much.
Your post is sooo achingly beautifully written Lisa-Jo. There are so many lines that resonate with me although I have my mother, in some ways I wish I had more of her. I dread the day she dies that we will not have risen to the next level emotionally. To my mother, I will always be 12 years old. And I long for those women to women talks that one can have with only someone who has cared for you, loved you and knows you. I so ache for that connection that I can only have with her. She is my only mother. There can be no other.
Lisa-Jo, I am so sorry for the loss of your mom. I wish I could somehow give her back to you. I wish I could erase every grief, turn back time for you and give your mom to you. Really do. I would bet that the love you give your children, cuts a wide cavern of grief out of the way and fills it with precious tender feelings for them that lets them know how much they mean to you. This doesn’t ever fill the void, but it helps, doesn’t it?
Stay strong, my dear, and keep writing. Your words are beautifully written, consoling, and emotionally raw, allowing others to open up to their own grief. Sometimes we all need to connect to that space even if for just a brief fleeting moment. It helps us all to stay connected with others and fosters empathy for all.
If only you knew how much your words mean to me and how much they help and encourage me….
I’m am the daughter of the mom who left. The mother who left me and my sweet, amazing father and 3 siblings when I was just 4 years old. My daddy is an amazing man who never thought twice about picking up the slack and raising 4 kids on his own. I’m FOREVER grateful for him and his love. But I spent my entire life without a mother. Sure we’d visit her and she’d pretend there was nothing wrong and all was right in the world. But those visits these last 27 years have been very few and far between and always initiated by us, the children, out of nothing more than obligation. I grew up not knowing the dynamic and priceless gift of the relationship between and mother and daughter. I felt flawed. I felt I was born (or maybe just adapted into) this person without the mommy gene. I had no desire to have and raise a child because I had no idea what that looked like. I didn’t feel qualified. BUT THEN my precious Hazel came along 19 1/2 priceless months ago. And oh the joy, the unexplainable joy, that has filled my heart and soul so much so that most days I feel like I’m just going to burst right open! I have no idea why God saw me fit to be her mother, but it’s no doubt my greatest joy and my greatest calling. She is my healing. She heals hurts in me that I didn’t even know existed. And I love that child. I love her from so down deep in my soul that it hurts. She is the child I never knew I wanted and I am becoming the mother I never knew I could be. I strive to mother that sweet girl with everything within me because that’s exactly what I didn’t have. It’s not always easy, but your blog posts always seem to come at just the right time. So thank you. Thank you for letting us into your world to see what motherhood looks like. I’m still learning what a beautiful blessing it is.
Wow. Heidi, your words are so powerfully beautiful. Your words remind me of how I feel about my daughter, now grown and about to have a baby of her own. And how I love my daughter.
Your writing, ‘And oh the joy, the unexplainable joy, that has filled my heart and soul so much so that most days I feel like I’m just going to burst right open! I have no idea why God saw me fit to be her mother, but it’s no doubt my greatest joy and my greatest calling. She is my healing. She heals hurts in me that I didn’t even know existed. And I love that child. I love her from so down deep in my soul that it hurts.’ – I feel exactly the same way about my daughter now and how I felt when she was born. It is a love that reaches deep down into the very depths of your soul and clings to all the broken parts, bringing them together where the vastness of that love allows us to have the courage to take a peek at our own brokenness and try to heal it for their sake.
Now that my daughter is about to have her own little one, my love is expanding to hold the two of them, it is even greater. Watching my daughter with her new little one and seeing her love unfold as she cares for him, will be like salve on an open wound, soothing all that is painful and re-balancing everything that is a kilter.
Thank you, Lisa, for being open about this. This Saturday, October 5, is the 50th anniversary of my mother’s death. She wasn’t always present in those first 10 years of my life due to her repeated bouts of different kinds of cancer. So I didn’t know her well but I miss her still. I have those beautiful after times as well, though we lost my in-laws early in our marriage. I don’t have “things” of hers much because my father sold much of it or my step family took it. But I often wonder what what would have been. And I hope my daughters (and son) will have me for quite a while longer.
This is for all the other motherless daughters out there:
http://reflectiontherapy.wordpress.com/2013/07/13/a-open-letter-to-grief/
Because grief is not a process …
As the leaves begin to fall, I miss my Mama too. She never saw my kids who are now 17 1/2 to 22. My youngest daughter takes after her a lot in her personality and she will be 19 this month. She never met the Grandma whose middle name she shares.
Last year I took the “Joy Dare” and made 31 posts of joy in my blog.
http://gis-butterfly.blogspot.com/2012/10/31-days-crazy-quilt-of-my-life.html
(Ann Voskamp was the one that encouraged the Joy Dare last year)
This year again I am doing a Joy Dare of my own. I just returned from a women’s retreat with my church. I have attended this church for over a decade and these ladies have been the grandmas and aunties for my precious children. When I was pulling out my hair they were telling me I was a good mom and that my kids were good kids.
Now I am blessed with 4 children who walk with Jesus. My world has been turned upside down in the past couple of months. When that happens, you can only do one thing…hang on to the promises of Jesus.
It has been 27 years and I still, sometimes, want to pick up the phone and talk to my mom…I am thankful that HE has given me other moms that will hug me and listen.
I too am a lost my Mom at a young age. I was 12. It has taken me many years to realize what you so poetically said, “This legacy of a lost mother is part of what’s been crafted into my storyline and I wouldn’t unwrite the after just so I could fix the before.” I now am a mother of two children that I adore. I wouldn’t trade the after to fix the before. But I do dream some days of what it would be like to mother and be mothered. The longing some days is unbearable. But I have confidence in this, “All praise to the God and Father of our Master, Jesus the Messiah! Father of all mercy! God of all healing counsel! He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us.” 2 Corinthians 1:3-4. Thank you for bearing your heart and coming alongside those of us who have “lost” a mom before we were fully ready. It is good to know there are others. God does not waste any of our pain. Love to you.
Holly, yes some days oh the longing! I’ll pin up 2 Cor 1:3-4. Thyanks for the encouragement :) xx
Wow, this was incredible. You are a wonderful mom and person bc of your struggles. I am going to call my mom and tell her I love her. Thank you
Oh, Lisa Jo, this just brought tears to my eyes. I am missing my dad. Or the idea of him. A man I once looked to as a godly father lives in the same town but is a stranger to me. Being an adult doesn’t make divorce hurt less. My children have lost a grandfather. I have loved him my whole life – still do – but his recent devastating choices have torn our family apart. I hate that he drives me to tears. Sometimes I get so angry that just thinking of him can do that to me. Thank you for this:
“I see your scars…But they’re all part of you. It’s OK that they ache. It’s OK that they make you feel the feelings you wish you could box away. They are as much you as your eye color and I love looking right into your eyes. “
This is so beautiful. I didn’t have time right now to read all the comments but I so relate. My own mother ’emotionally missing’ most of my life and now she has dementia and parkinson’s. It is a hard thing to not have the support growing up. The other piece for me is my dad passed away two weeks ago so it feels at age 58 rather ’empty.’ Not as empty as my husband who has lost both parents within two years.
Life is hard.
Thankyou… I lost my Mom a year and half ago. What you said helped me make sense of the way I’ve been feeling but could never explain in words.
Alex it is so great that you can see your pain in words of another, so you can start understanding it, and keeping the best of your mum
THANK YOU! I lost my father when I was 8 years old, and that left my mum emotionally unavailable , I have realized that just a few years ago.
Last year I became a mum and I begin crying out loud my empty box of mum is here for you.
She is becoming a very good grandma or trying hard in her way.
It hurts, butt sometimes it heals too.
Vanesa from Buenos Aires
Thank you Lisa-Jo. It hurts. And your words resonate.
I relate to sometimes the feelings being all tucked up and tidy the the box in the spare room (coping, the passage of time, sparing others embarrassment at my story), and at other times, random times, they all spill out and touch everything.
I lost my Mum to cancer when I was 15. I found turning 30 hard, not for the traditional reason, but because I was mourning that I’d had a Mum for less than half of my life; I was afraid of having even less of her. And now having had two wonderful little boys, while it has redeemed some aspects ( I don’t dread Mothers Day) it makes me so much more aware of what I’ve missed, asking about her experiences, advice, love, grandmothering, even if I can imagine maybe the advice wouldn’t always be quite so welcome… I was quietly relieved to have 2 boys – I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to do a mother-daughter relationship.
There is camaraderie in being able to share our wounds. I am sad for all these hurts shared here. There will come a future when tears are wiped away, but in the humanness, here, it is still messy, it still hurts. Love to everyone sharing their stories, pain and joy, and those who hold their stories close to their chest, still raw.
I understand your words. I’m a foster care kid, well not anymore. I”m now an adult with two kids of my own, but I was a motherless child and even though today I have some what of a relationship with my mother, I went so many years without it or without the love that is supposed to be shared between mother and daughter. Its hard. Most days like you, I pretend to be immune for it or think I’m not affected by the lack of a relationship with my mother, but it does creep in at unexpected times. But yes, like you said, it is written into the story of who I am, and I think its made me become a better mom. I hope at least. Thanks for writing this.
Loved your words too Heather. I also seem to be immune or unaffected by the lack of a mother most of the time. But I can’t lie that at times when I look at my precious daughter, whom I love from the depths of my soul, those wounds open up a bit as I wonder how in the world someone could walk away from something to precious. But it is what it is and I am also a better mom because of it.
It does open up wounds for sure Heidi. I also can’t imagine how someone could walk away from someone that is supposed to be so precious to them. I think we all have a story to tell and we can let the bad things in our lives create a bad story or we can let it become the inspiration that helps others. That’s the way I look at it. I think I was supposed to have the childhood I had, so that I could give my kids what I didn’t have and wouldn’t take the relationships I have with them for granted.
Lisa, your words are an exact replica of mine! A reflection and mirrior of my heart, which is rare to find. How I would love to sit and talk with you… I have commented on your blog once before — my mom died when I was 17, my dad at 26, and I am now 35. Being a parentless parent is hard for this mom of 4 little ones, but being a motherless mother, however, is the most difficult for me. Thank you for articulating what God himself is drawing me to, in my own healing. This journey of grief is never over, and I am so thankful for your words in my wounds and healing. Jesus shines through you!
Sweetheart – I’m so glad you are doing this series. The multitude of fans who have been added into the circle of your wonderful words need to see these important pieces of you. And this one is absolutely central, isn’t it? Thank you for making room for the lament, the loss, the pain. Thank you for modeling that openness in this space, thank you for giving permission to be a fully-orbed human creature and not a flat caricature of one. Your mother would be so proud. Your mother IS so proud.
I can relate to this on every level. So very beautifully written.
My mom was my very best friend and died when I was 19. That was many years ago now, but different things trigger the loss.
Especially the births of my babies, it’s hard to even imagine her here as a grandmother. I have no doubt she would have been amazing, but it’s just so foreign to me because I’ve been without her for so long.
And that brings me sadness, and to her too, I’m sure.
Motherless daughters are very empathetic and treasure each blessing, at least the ones that I know. I think it’s because we know how quickly things can change. Losing a parent is heartbreaking but leaving your child must be worse. As a mom myself now, I empathize with how she must have felt. I couldn’t even imagine.
And now one of my duties is to try to explain to my kids how much she would have loved to be their grandma. Putting into words things that are deep within the heart is not easy.
Hugs to you.
Thank you so much for this! Sunday was that kind of day when I was holding on for dear life.
I lived in the same home with my mother until I was 17. I loved her, worked hard to please her, and ached as I watched depression eat away the vibrancy and life from my mom. In my early teens, I began to run to my Granny for hope and encouragement. A youth in the Great Depression, Granny was short on words but poured love out through acts of quiet service.
When life made no sense, her no-nonsense point of view was the sanity anchor in a world of family chaos. As my mom’s depression took her far from my reach, and my dad’s addictions changed him at the core, my maternal grandmother became the parent I clung to. When I was a junior in high school, Granny told me she had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. I moved into her home the next month and monitored her and ate up every delicious moment when she was herself. I wrote her words and stories on my heart. As she started to slip away, those note pages kept me from losing anchor as I transitioned into adulthood, into being a wife, into losing a baby, and into “full” motherhood at last.
The only bonding time my mother and I have had in a decade was during my first motherhood loss. Somehow, she came out of her shell to draw near to me… and it was lovely. A few weeks later, my mom was gone into her own world again and the ache was worse.
My only sweet child ( a daughter!) is now almost 8. We sent my Granny to be with Jesus forever when my baby girl was 8 months old. Some days I just long to reach up to heaven and ask Granny so many things… Am I a good mom? Does my girl know how deeply I love her? Am I shielding her heart from the wounds that grew in mine from the distance of my momma? Will we be friends one day when I no longer need to shepherd her so intensely? Will my granddaughters seek me out ALONGSIDE their momma instead of as a substitute for her?
I am fumbling my way through this life, too. Moments that are brilliant and colorful and love-affirming topple into the ones that ache and sting and cause me to doubt.
I am so greatful that in a world of “supermom” social media, there is a soul-sister who is authentic, gentle, and spirit-walking this road with us. Be encouraged! Your words bless me every time you share them.
~April
I am so choked up by your post, I am having trouble articulating anything coherent. Just wanted to thank you for your heartfelt honesty and courage. My mother passed away in June after being increasingly “absent” because of Alzheimer’s disease for the last 10+ years. She stopped consistently recognizing me soon after my wedding in 2008. I was “motherless” for my miscarriage in 2010 and for my first daughter’s birth in 2012. I am expecting my second daughter late next month. For some time, I have felt that I am “accustomed” to the absence of my mother but I find myself overwhelmed with emotion when I least expect it.
These words really resonated with me: “This legacy of a lost mother is part of what’s been crafted into my storyline and I wouldn’t unwrite the after just so I could fix the before.” I am so much closer to my amazing mother-in-law and a lot of other mentors and friends than I ever would have been had I not lost my mother. My marriage is also ten times stronger because I lost my mother as my number one confidant and had to learn to really trust my husband. There really is beauty in the sadness.
Lisa-Jo, thank you. Thank you for adding the words “emotionally unavailable.” NO one else gets it! I’m so tired of mother’s day, when the LAST thing I want to do is honor a mother who neglected her children, ignoring them for whatever reasons. Everyone around me (here in the South) acts like it’s a sin to not love and brag on one’s own mother. Thank you for giving me permission not to love her.
Whoa. where did that come from????
Lisa-Jo, at age 67, I fully understand what you go through. I lost my mom when I was 23, married only for 18 months. She was a teacher and a lover of children. My children missed so much not knowing that Godly woman. I think about her even more as I get older and experience grandchildren of my own. Oh, what they are missing! You are so loved by those of us online.
It’s amazing what an impact our mothers can have on our lives. As a new mom, and a very young mom, I had no idea how little respect/how much I didn’t know about my mother. I feel like I am just getting the opportunity now to understand her, as I parent my own two little ones. I wrote a post about my moms’ influence in my life as a young mother and how much more respect I have for her now on my blog at brianameade.com.
I, too, am a motherless daughter – since the age of nine. I cannot help but think that my life would have been significantly different had she been around until I became an adult. I’m 42 now and recently discovered I have a deleterious gene mutation which I may have unknowingly passed onto my son. My greatest fear in life of leaving my child motherless at a young age may come to fruition sooner rather than later and is the impetus for my blog. Not a single day passes without thoughts of my Mother – the pain never truly goes away, you simply get used to it.
Kindest regards,
Georgia Hurst
ihavelynchsyndrome.com
My box Lisa? My box is empty. Completely void of pictures or memories or anything except pain. While I had a birth mother, I was taken from her when I was about 3 because she was severely negligent. Not one corner of the box holds a memory of her. I have no memories {thankfully} of any mothers in the foster homes I stayed in the following 3 years. The next “mother” was extremely abusive, emotionally and physically…for 8 yrs., until I was removed from that home and placed in yet another foster home. But the fact that my box is empty and yours is full does not negate the fact that I can relate to the pain. I understand loss…on a very deep level. And I am so very sorry for the loss of your beautiful mother. And I imagine, dear Lisa Jo that she is as much a part of you as you are of Zoe. God has blessed you with 2 boys, but it is your daughter that will both break and heal your heart in the days to come. YOU are a great mama!
Lisa Jo, thank you so much. My two sisters and I lost our mama when I was 22. Now, I, like you, am a motherless daughter, a motherless mother, as I raise my 3 little girls. Your words are a balm today. Thank you for welcoming scars.
Wow… Thank you for that… I never knew my mom… She passed away when I was just 1. Thanks for putting into words what is deep inside my heart.
I lost my mother a year ago this week. She knew our three boys, but the youngest was just a year old when she passed away and that idea that they won’t be able to know her…it’s so hard. And the grief just comes in waves. Thank you for putting so beautifully into words how I feel so many days. Sometimes it IS opening a literal box — we’re still going through things at my Dad’s house. And sometimes it will just be a word, a glance, a memory that comes flooding back. I have a wonderful mother-in-law, but when my Mom died she left a big gaping hole in all our lives. I was able to speak about her yesterday, about the blessing she was in our lives and in so many others. And I’m so thankful.
I unexpectedly lost my wonderful loving mother a week before Christmas last year. In the last nine months, I’ve learned that no one else in my life loved or understood me like she did. I feel like an alien in my own family. Seven years ago, I chose to move to the other side of the world and she, despite missing me like crazy, accepted that I was in search of a life much more suited to my personality. However, she always came to visit and we would speak on the phone several times a week (sometimes for hours). I was lucky that I knew her as both my parent and my friend. She saw me marry and saw me happy with my husband, whom she adored. We were thinking about starting a family and she was thrilled. Now, I can’t bring myself to do it because I can’t imagine being pregnant or a first-time mother without my mother. I can’t imagine our child not having her as a grandmother. Since she passed, we have bought the house she hoped we would buy, I’ve become a citizen of my adopted country (which she would be thrilled about), and I’m starting my masters degree in 2 weeks. These are all things that I would give anything to share with her because she alone knew how important all these things were to me. It just makes the ache so much worse.
I don’t speak about this to anyone. Not even my father because he is still grieving for his wife of 40 years and I just can’t add to his pain. It is still very raw. Thank you for your post. It helps. It makes me realise that what I’m feeling isn’t bizarre. It is normal. I may have a scar but I wouldn’t trade that scar for anything in the world. That scar is the love that my mother had for me and I for her.
I am the mother who, on my lowest of low days, has contemplated walking away from my children because I just don’t feel like I have much to give — and I want better for them. I am the mother who constantly hears “I hate you!” and “Go away, Mom!” and whose heart isn’t buoyant enough — right now — for the barbs to bounce off. Yet, I am the mother who keeps trying, the mother who remembers her own never giving up on her.
I am very blessed to still have my mother. My heart aches for all those who don’t. After my oldest child was born my mother felt great guilt that she hadn’t stayed in our apartment for days to help us with the transition, which seemed de rigeur for her friends and their grown daughters. (She was present at the birth and stocked our pantry with food. Then she went back to care for my siblings still at home.) “But Mom,” I told her, “you had already given me all the confidence I needed to do it myself.” Even so, I don’t know what I will do without her someday.
Just discovered your website and am loving it so far and hope to link up for a 5 minute Friday in the future.
I have not lost my mother, but my husband lost his mother just before we met, and I do so wish I had been able to meet her. Instead I listen to stories and look at pictures and videos and try to piece her together.
I am a mother of two now, and I tell my mom that I’m amazed to discover that I feel like I need her even more now than I did as a kid. I can never really understand the pain you endure over the loss of your mom, but I do understand that nothing makes you crave your mom like becoming a mom.
Thanks for being brave enough to share your story.
Thank you so much for sharing your life. I know God directed me to you. I have been suffering from depression for years. I did not know how to identify what I was feeling. God is showing me through your feelings. My life has been filled with regrets. But it doesn’t have to be regrets. Just experience. Thank you for sharing. You are teaching me how to be a better mom. My mom didn’t really know how either. So I am learning. Don’t get me wrong, she did the best she could with what she had. I love her so much and miss her terribly. My two girls and my husband never met my parents. They have been dead many years. I am so glad I have found you!
I stumbled across your blog and this post almost by accident today. How deeply I have been feeling this ache, the ache of a life lived on without a mother to call, to hug, to just know is there to care. My mama died two weeks before I turned 15. I’m now 28, and mother to a toddler. And the pain never really goes away, does it? Thank you for sharing part of your story and creating a space here where we don’t have to feel so alone in this.
This one broke my heart. My mom is still here, but I don’t know what I’m going to do when she leaves…what its going to feel like, or how I’m going to handle it.
She is moving away soon…to a different state, and even that breaks my heart a little. They are leaving the home that I grew up in…the memories that make me who I am and what my childhood was. It is only a house, and I will still have the memories…but still…
This is such an amazing, insightful post. My mother passed away a year and a half ago. As a 19 year old, freshman in college I couldn’t help bit think of all the things I won’t get to do with my mother.
October is a hard month as that is when we found out she was sick. I struggle with it most in this month. But somehow I ended up here. Guided by a Facebook post of a friend sharing another post. I was meant to find this. You have helped me realize that it is okay to feel what I feel and no matter how hard it gets, I wouldn’t trade anything to come.
So thank you. All I want to do is thank you for this post.
Oh I so get this! My mom passed away 2 weeks after my 14th birthday but was sick from the time I was 10. I have often felt that I have had 2 lives. One with my mom and one without. Both have had great times and both have been sad but both are very different from one another.
I am 16 years old and my mom went into a full cardiac arrest on the 26th of July this year and didn’t make it back. In early 2012 I was taken away from my mom by court order and my father was given custody of me and I’ve been stuck with him and his family since. He’s hardly ever home and his wife treats me like crap compared to their daughter. About a month ago, I woke up with a tingling/numb sensation in my legs and feet that made walking and even sitting or lying down strangely uncomfortable so I went to a neurologist who suggested an MRI just to be sure that it was stress causing my discomfort and not anything else. The results from that MRI were far from normal because there were several little legions and one the size of a half dollar found on my brain. Two weeks ago the neurologist called and said that I needed to come for further testing asap. Before this, I had never been in the hospital for more than a few hours. I ended up being hospitalized for 5 days, getting 3 more MRIs, 8 tubes of blood taken, and 4 tubes of spinal fluid taken. They checked my vital signs (blood pressure, temperature, blood sugar, and oxygen levels) every six hours and they treated me with steroids and flushed me with saline once daily at 8 pm. After all of this was over they diagnosed me with multiple sclerosis. Through all of this, the part that gets to me is that I think about my mother more than I go to the bathroom.
Thank you for your beautiful words and I am so sorry to read about your loss.
I lost my mother to suicide when I was 3. My dad remarried a year later and got us a replacement mother. For many reasons, it was hard to form a meaningful attachment with her and by the time I was 7 I had figured out the truth. The loss had hurt my family and my Dad the most, but it was covered up. My mother was blamed for everything under the sun and I grew up hating her. Needless to say my teenage years were some of the darkest in my life…never grieving for my mother, having to watch half sisters get more love than me and feeling so depressed and confused… Never knowing why I felt such a deep hole. Fast forward 25 years and I am finally grieving for her. I have just opened that little pandora’s box and connected with people who will talk about her and tell me that she was a good person and most of all, that she did love me.
For as long as I can remember I have never felt good enough. Not for her, second best for my Dad and never thin enough, pretty enough or clever enough for my step mother. The research I am doing now is changing that, reading a vast amount of books about motherless daughters (check out amazon there is an amazing selection) I am realising my feelings are…dare I say it… Normal. They are justified. I have a hard time believing that I am allowed to feel this way as all my life pretty much I have been told I shouldnt miss my Mum or think about her. There is such conflict in my head but support from my husband is helping to block out those voices and focus on what I need to do.
I am not a mother yet. I am terrified of becoming one deep down because I am scared that I could hurt my children the way my Mum hurt us. How can I be the mother I want to be when I need my own so much?
It is weird to grieve for her now…it feels like she has just died yet I have known she was dead for a long time and I have lived without her. It feels like this happened yesterday.
What is the worst thing? Knowing my life will never be the same, that I will always have a hole because nothing can ever fill it. 25 years after she died, I am finally beginning to understand that she wont come back, my grieving process has just begun.
I have some of her letters, learnt about her through people and now I feel like, almost as if I have found her. I have pictures of her – I have never seen her until now. I compare our photos to see what features I have of hers. I do all this in secret so that my family never know…I feel too guilty. And now I am discovering who she was, I can’t begin to think about letting her go. I can’t forgive her and I can’t say goodbye, God knows I need her in my life so much right now. Mental health issues or not. I just need my Mother.
Goodness. I just found your website quite recently and have been reading over many of the posts. I found one the other day that made me melt. It was the one about feeling guilty about going to work. This one, the one about loss, and our holes, the ones that we finally realize aren’t going to heal up, just hit home. My father committed suicide when I was just 15 years old. I, like you, tried to go on and pretend that all was well. I recently completed my Ed.D., like I was trying to prove something, but that didn’t fill that void, either. I know Jesus, and he heals, but there is still always that hole, no matter what people say or do. There is always that guilt that I didn’t say “I love you!” to him when I left him that day. I know that he knows, but I am still crying as I write this. I ache for you and the loss of your sweet mother. I am so sorry. You write beautifully and I cannot thank you enough for sharing. My eyes are filled with tears and my nose is running :) You’re an angel on earth!
I lost my mom when I was 9. I don’t have many memories of her before getting sick. I’m about to be 26 now and every year seems to get harder. I’m not sure what it is or if its just everything. I think I’ve met the one and eveyone around me is getting married or engaged or moving in havering kids and in all of it I see how she won’t be there when my time comes. I have an amazing MIL (the entire family has taken me in as a daughter) and grandmother and aunts and father but it still hurts so bad. The older I get the deeper the hole feels