*I found this on the internet, with no attribution, and the many comments on the original post were an affirmation that indeed, I am not alone in having a difficult, cruel, annihilating mother, a woman who told me (and only me of her 4 kids) that she did not want any children. She was willing to have her first 2 – my older brother and sister – because my dad very much wanted to be a father. But then, along I came, numero 3 – the worst thing that ever happened to her, the ruination of her life, she said – followed 18 months later by my little sister, who at least freed her from more babies – or, GOD FORBID, using birth control of any kind as a good little Catholic. How? My mom’s docs removed her uterus and an ovary as – they admitted this to my dad – a form of birth control after the 4th C-section my mom had in 5.5 years.
*The choice to become a parent or not is one of the most impactful we can make in our lives. Raising a child doesn’t end at 16 or 18 or 21; it goes on for the life of the parent. Actively, consciously choosing not to have children also goes on until death, as does the stigma (childless woman? good lord what’s wrong with you?! you must be miserable, have no purpose, be a lesbian, etc. etc. ad nauseam); it’s choice I made and affirm joyfully, because I love my life. If I had met a great, amazing, funny, sexy, smart guy (was I asking too much LOL) who wanted to actually, seriously co-parent with me, okay, I might’ve gone along and sprouted a few kidlettes – but it didn’t happen, and that’s good too, because the patience it takes to be a good parent – not my strongest suit, TBH.
*And, yes, I had a horribly cruel and unkind mother. My concern about being in any way like her did require me to think twice and three, five, eighteen times before taking any step toward being a parent. Not all women want to be mothers. Not all women should be mothers.
The anonymous post:
There is a heartbreak that follows many daughters through life. The heartbreak of wishing for a mother who feels safe, kind, and loving, while facing the reality she will never be that person.
A daughter grows up imagining her mother as her closest ally, yet when that bond is missing, the ache stays long after childhood has ended.
Some daughters spend years trying to earn what should have been natural. They speak gently, avoid conflict, work hard to be the “good daughter,” and hope that effort will finally be enough.
Each attempt feels like building a bridge that collapses as soon as they step on it, leaving them with the same emptiness they started with.
The world repeats that family means everything, but for them family feels like a place where love is always out of reach. That contradiction cuts deep, leaving them loyal yet disappointed, present yet unfulfilled, smiling in public while carrying pain in silence.
The wound does not fade with age, it shows up in friendships, relationships, and the way they see their own worth.
Others often fail to understand, because they cling to the belief that mothers always love their children. When your reality proves otherwise, those words feel like salt on an open wound.
The truth is that this kind of bond leaves scars that shape the way you trust, the way you love, and the way you protect yourself from further pain.
There are daughters who would give anything to call their mother without fear of judgment, dismissal, or conflict. They look at their phone and wish for a simple, gentle exchange, the kind that feels easy and real.
Their grief deserves compassion, because it takes immense strength to mourn the absence of love from someone who is still alive, someone who still shows up at family gatherings, yet withholds the warmth you spent your entire childhood chasing.
Through that grief, some daughters begin giving themselves the love they once begged for in unreturned hugs, unanswered cries, and moments when their pain was dismissed as if it did not exist.
They learn to sit with the little girl inside who still aches, speaking the words she always needed to hear, wrapping her in comfort that finally feels safe.
They learn to protect the parts of themselves that once felt unprotected, setting boundaries that should have been there and showing patience where judgment once lived.
That choice becomes survival, and survival turns into something greater than just holding on. It becomes rewriting the story that once left deep pain.
From that survival grows strength, proof they are stronger than the silence, the criticism, and the distance that shaped them.
With that strength they create a love that heals, a love that belongs to them completely, a love powerful enough to break the cycle. (*we certainly hope so, anyway)