Mother to Mother

I never had a mother who showed me how to do things well—or at least, not with love. She taught me how to cook, how to clean, how to get things done. But everything felt heavy, like an obligation she never wanted. She wasn’t the kind of woman who enjoyed being a wife or a mother, and even now, I don’t understand why she chose that life.

Most of my childhood memories revolve around my father. I still don’t know how he managed it all—working two jobs, coming home to clean, and taking care of us—but he did. My mother, on the other hand, is harder to remember. And the memories I do have aren’t gentle ones. She was never happy. Being home with us, caring for us, maintaining the house—it all seemed to weigh on her in a way that made sure we felt it too.

The only time she seemed at peace was when she wasn’t home, which was often.

Not much has changed. Even now, she pours herself into church events but resents the responsibilities waiting for her at home. I’ve often wondered if her tendency to take people in is less about helping and more about lightening her own load. And when those people stop meeting her expectations, things fall apart. But that’s a story for another time.

For most of my life, I believed all women hated housework. I thought it was just something we endured because it was expected of us. I loved being a mother—I always have—but cleaning filled me with anxiety, sometimes even anger. It wasn’t until my thirties that I realized why.

I wasn’t reacting to the work itself. I was reacting to everything it represented.

The shift began when I met my husband’s grandmother. She is the kind of woman who quietly takes care of any space she enters. It doesn’t matter whose home it is—she brings order, not out of obligation, but from a place of care. She doesn’t complain. She doesn’t criticize. She doesn’t shame other women for doing things differently. She simply leads by example.

Being around her changed something in me.

Alongside all the self-help books and inner work, she gave me something I didn’t even realize I needed: a new reference point. A way of existing in responsibility without resentment. A way of caring that didn’t feel heavy or forced.

I’ve always known that much of how I was raised was wrong, and my instinct was to become the opposite of what I experienced. In many ways, I did. My children have a different mother than I had. But healing isn’t that simple. When life became fuller—more children, more responsibility, a partner who didn’t always understand how to support me—my cracks started to show.

And isn’t it ironic? People rarely notice how far you’ve come. They focus on what you haven’t mastered yet.

I grew up without the kind of guidance that teaches gently. Instead, I was surrounded by people who criticized before they ever considered teaching. And once your spirit has been chipped away like that, it’s hard to hear anything clearly. You can’t tear someone down and expect them to trust you enough to learn from you.

That’s something many people never seem to understand.

I’ve also learned that people often assume you’re unaware of your shortcomings—that you’re not already doing the work, not already holding yourself accountable. But more often than not, the loudest critics are avoiding their own reflection. Watching someone else grow can be uncomfortable when you’re not ready to face yourself.

At some point, I stopped trying to explain my journey. I stopped defending my honesty. People will see you how they want to see you, and exhausting yourself trying to control that only pulls you further away from your own peace.

That peace didn’t come easily.

For a long time, anger felt like protection. It showed up when I felt disrespected, betrayed, or small. It felt justified. But over time, I realized that matching someone else’s energy wasn’t protecting me—it was draining me. So I had to change. My environment, my mindset, my boundaries. And sometimes, that meant letting people go.

That was the hardest part.

Letting go of people I thought would be in my life forever—not because I stopped caring, but because they couldn’t meet me in a space that wasn’t rooted in my old wounds.

But healing has given me something in return.

My children feel safe with me. They love me in a way I never experienced with my own mother. I am their safe place. And that—more than anything—is something I’m proud of.

Still, the little girl in me grieves sometimes. That doesn’t go away just because I’ve grown. My relationship with my mother is beyond repair, and that’s a reality I’ve had to accept. But I don’t let it define what I’m building now.

I’m not perfect at this. Not even close.

But every time I choose patience over reaction, every time I create stability where there once was chaos, every time I show up with intention instead of instinct—I count that as a victory.

Because the truth is, your roots don’t control your growth.

That’s a choice you make, over and over again.