My mother taught me to read before I turned four, and I learned to write before I was five. When I struggled with spelling in early elementary school, she would quiz me in our retro kitchen, sitting on the cool, avocado-green linoleum while she read from a list of words resting next to the stove. We colored, played dress-up, and sometimes even put on little performances together. In my childhood, I walked in my mother’s footsteps. But now, I have no desire to emulate her, because these cherished moments are merely idealized memories — they hardly reflect the true nature of who my mother was.
Born the same year as “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy, my mother was a profoundly complicated individual. She battled anger, struggled with her health, and often turned to alcohol to escape her pain. Her meager finances went toward cheap beer and low-quality spirits. Mentally, she faced challenges that went undiagnosed and untreated for years. But that was just the beginning.
She neglected herself and our home. She would sleep all day and night, leaving our house in disarray. Dust and cigarette ash coated every surface, and bugs scuttled through our cupboards. By the time I was thirteen, I was taking care of my younger brother, cooking and cleaning, shouldering responsibilities that no child should have to bear.
The real reason I refuse to follow in my mother’s footsteps is the abuse. Despite a few golden moments, my mother was often cold, cruel, and manipulative. She rarely struck me physically, but her emotional wounds ran deep. She yelled daily, berated me, and then would apologize, only to repeat the cycle. I grew up believing I was worthless, that I was a “failure” by my tenth birthday and a “dumb mistake” by thirteen. Even now, as I approach thirty-seven, those feelings linger. But I’m determined to break free from that cycle, fighting hard to lift myself out of darkness and become a better person and parent.
Of course, it’s a challenge. When I feel overwhelmed, her voice echoes in my mind, and I sometimes hear her anger coming from my own lips. But I know my children deserve better. So I attend therapy weekly, consult my psychiatrist biweekly, and take medication to manage my mental health. I prioritize self-care, embracing healthy habits like exercise and mindful eating — something she never did. I strive to find joy in the little things and break the cycle of despair and abuse.
I also make it a point to apologize when I falter. If I lose my temper or fail to be present, I acknowledge my mistakes with my kids. I want them to understand that while I may struggle, they are never a burden. They will always know their worth, and that is my greatest legacy as a parent.
This article was originally published on Feb. 9, 2021.
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In summary, my journey is one of resilience and transformation. I am committed to becoming the woman my mother couldn’t be, breaking free from the chains of the past and creating a nurturing environment for my children.
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