The Story is Changing

It’s not that I don’t remember the good times—it’s that my nervous system was never able to fully receive them. The bad always seemed to eclipse the good, because my body was bracing, waiting. Not if something would erupt… but when.

As a child, I couldn’t fully relax and enjoy the good moments, because my nervous system was on constant high alert. It felt like living in a war zone.

On top of that, there were very real differences in how each child was treated, and those disparities left lasting marks on all of us.

Last night, my mom and I had another conversation about the breakdown in our relationship. We both went back and read old emails to find a common ground—a starting point.

I shared with her the story I’ve carried: that I’ve never felt good enough for her. That I’ve always experienced a marked difference in how she treats me versus my siblings. It’s like I have to be perfect just to be accepted, while others can treat me terribly and still receive love. I shared a few examples of being physically distanced while others got to enjoy closeness.

She told me she feels uncomfortable around me and doesn’t believe in all the things I’m involved in. Fine—have that. But here’s what cuts: my older sister is involved in all sorts of things I dare not name here, and my mom not only visits her, but celebrates every little win of hers.

Meanwhile, I’m over here healing trauma, making better decisions, improving my life… and I’m told I make her uncomfortable? To the point where I can’t even get a public word of praise, or private acknowledgment, or regular encouragement that she’s proud of me?

I didn’t sugarcoat it for her. I needed her to feel how it’s felt on my end—being the little girl jumping, twirling, clapping, desperate to get her mommy’s attention.

I said, “Mom, I feel like I’ve had to get myself here on my own. I don’t feel like I’ve had a cheerleader. I haven’t had someone who believes in me, encourages my dreams. These past two-plus years have been some of the loneliest, and I’ve seen what I’m made of. And at the same time—you’re my MOM. Nothing replaces the deep desire to feel and hear you say you’re proud of me. To show me off. To see me. I see you do it for Leanne when she does the littlest fucking thing. Meanwhile, I’m over here begging for scraps.”

I could see her bravely hold it all, so I leaned in further.

“Mom, I share these things not to beat you up—but because I need you to understand how it’s affected me. It’s taken me until I’m 44 to really feel my value and be open to the love I deserve. These things have shaped me, and I need our dynamic to change if we’re going to grow. The past is here for us to learn from and to do differently now.”

She then shared her own story.

I learned something I hadn’t known: my grandfather was extremely physically abusive to my grandmother. She was often in the hospital with black eyes and bruises all over her body. Not once was he arrested or held accountable. Her experience of extreme bi-polar and a chain smokeing on an oxygen tank till the day she died makes so much sense now!

Fast forward to my mom being a teen mom at 19—with me on the way.

I paused to feel all of that in my body. I remembered what I was like at 19. What the fuck did I really understand back then? If I had two children at that age, with my own rage, violence, addiction, and trauma? I would’ve absolutely messed them up too.

The truth is, I understand my mom had less support and fewer tools than I’ve had. Sometimes it takes putting ourselves in someone else’s shoes to really see their capacity.

She explained that she was especially protective of Leanne because of the sexual abuse and because Chip was cruelest to her. Then she paused and said something that struck me:

“I realize you were abused too… at least I do now. I wasn’t always aware. I realize that might sound weird, but it didn’t occur to me at the time. I was so focused on protecting Leanne.”

And I do get that. When we’re in fight/flight/freeze/fawn, we miss a lot. It’s impossible to be hypervigilant to everything at once. In her young, traumatized brain and body, she focused on the immediate danger.

Then she said something else that cracked something open in me:

“I realize now that my over-protectiveness of Leanne made me miss a lot of what happened to you kids—and even caused more damage than I intended. I did the best I could…”

She burst into tears.

“Kelly, I love you. I’ve really missed you. I remember the good times too. I can’t change the past, but I’m here now because I do love you. And I’m willing to do the work.”

I have longed to hear those words for so long. I used to dream about them. I imagined how I would cry, fall into her arms, feel the healing right away.

But to my surprise, I felt guarded. Armored. It was like being soaking wet and unable to feel the heat of fire—love, longing, pain—nothing was getting through.

I paused and gathered myself.

“Mom, thank you for sharing that. These are words I’ve longed to hear. And I’m also noticing that I’m armored right now. These past few years have been the most challenging of my life, and I’ve built up a lot just to survive. I’m in a process of softening… and I’m not quite sure how to respond right now.”

It did shift something in me though. I saw her capacity. I saw the story from another angle. I no longer took it all so personally.

And I said, “What I need going forward is more Mom. I’m your child. I will always be your child. You don’t have to agree with everything I do, but I need to be encouraged. Acknowledged. Seen. Loved. I need your interest in me.”

We changed topics after that—sharing what’s going on in our lives, letting our bodies and minds process what had just happened. But even in our everyday storytelling, I could feel it:

We’re softening.

We’re opening.

We’re re-learning how to relate authentically.

Nobody handed us a 10-step guide to reconciliation. We’re figuring it out through listening—to our stories, our emotions, and the desire for love that underlies it all.

And the story I’ve carried—“I’m not good enough”—was her story, too:

“Nobody ever gave me enough.”

There was never enough to go around, because nobody ever got what they needed from their caregivers.

And still—she did her best.

And so did I.

And we’re doing our best now!

That’s a truth I can rebuild on.