Mother.

For twenty-eight years of my existence the word mother meant pain to me. I was adamant and vocal during my youth and most of my twenties that I was not going to have children. I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting another in the ways my mother hurt me.

What I didn’t tell anyone was that for years, every few months or so in my dreams, a little girl whom I didn’t know would visit me, though she felt familiar. The petite girl was blonde, smiling and always happily dancing in the warmth of the sun in a meadow a few yards from me. She was too far away to see clearly but I knew she wasn’t me, yet she felt like a part of me. I would awaken from these dreams with the word “daughter” whispering in my head and a sense of longing in my heart. Once fully awake the word daughter would remind me of that other word, mother. And again, I would close off my heart to the idea of ever having children.

I was four years old when I first pieced together that my mother was not a safe person. It was an overwhelming realization that I emotionally struggled with throughout the remainder of my childhood. It created a war within, with one side determined to keep safe by distancing myself from her while the other side kept reaching for her in hopes of finding connection and unconditional love. Cognitive dissonance at its finest. Connection with my mother inevitably ended in pain, shame and feelings of deep despair.

My dad was a safe parent, that I will always be grateful for. He made mistakes, of course, but what made him safe was his willingness to be open to hearing my complaints, accepting accountability, and a willingness to repair when hurt had taken place. He loved unconditionally, parented with intention and respect, and accepted me as I was. He was the epitome of a true leader with his actions and words aligned. I loved my dad immensely and he loved me more.

He died when I was twenty-seven. This could have broken me, but instead I fueled that profound pain into purpose and wrapped myself with his unconditional love and focused on healing. I explored my internal world, deconstructing my childhood, consciously healing my mother wound while shedding any and all beliefs and values that didn’t align with who I was at my core. I released myself from the grips of an unhealthy relationship with my mother, walking away from her and letting go of any hope for her to change, and I began to find my true Self in the process.

A year or so after my father’s passing, the little girl in my dreams started visiting more frequently. I became painfully aware that the type of love that was shared between my dad and me had nowhere to go anymore, it felt displaced and alone; like I had a storage container, overflowing with a very specific recipe of  love to give, and no one to offer it to. But I was stubborn and still not ready to consider the notion of having a child of my own, let alone admit I was having these thoughts. And then a funny thing happened. My body began rejecting every form of birth control that was available to me. After several months I conceded and quietly listened to what the Universe was trying to tell me: to stop living in fear of that word. That I was different than my own mother and capable of offering safety and unconditional love to a child. I loosened the tight hold that fear had on my heart and gave permission to myself to finally open up to the notion of becoming a mother.

Nine months later my sweet Clementine entered the world with blonde hair, blue eyes and a joy that continues to radiate warmth and light wherever she goes. Never have I been more fulfilled or at peace with the ways of the world. Life is sneaky like that, offering you joy within sorrow and healing amidst the pain. Sometimes those meant to love us the most are the very ones who hurt us the deepest. And sometimes those who truly did love us the most are taken away too soon. When we focus, solely, on the hurt caused by others we close ourselves off from opportunities of growth, change and genuine joy.

Sometimes life takes away from you, something so incredibly great that you’re left with a hole. And sometimes life gives to you something just as equally great, and suddenly you’re whole.

I no longer associate pain with the word mother. But rather, safety, acceptance, softness, joy, compassion, and connection, and above all else, love.

I am a mother.