- At the age of two, my mother abandoned me.
- I believed I had processed my trauma, but then I became a parent.
- In a moment of sleep-deprived exhaustion, I understood why some mothers walked away.
When I was 2 years old, my mother who carried me in her womb, feeling my every turn and kick, packed her suitcase, got in her car, and left without looking back.
Logically, I understand it wasn’t my fault. She had a difficult childhood and battled addiction. But how do you process the fact that your own mother doesn’t love you?
The resurgence of trauma
Throughout the years, I buried the anger and abandonment deep inside a box hidden in the back of a closet. Therapy provided some relief, but alcohol only made things worse. I convinced myself that I couldn’t comprehend what she had experienced—I wasn’t a parent. I hadn’t faced the sleepless nights, the vomit, and all the other challenges of motherhood.
Then, those two lines on the pregnancy test turned blue.
I anticipated the stretch marks, the sleep deprivation, and the messy diaper blowouts. What I didn’t anticipate was my tightly sealed box of childhood trauma unraveling itself in my newborn daughter’s nursery.
As I sat there, rocking my two-week-old daughter, her small hand holding onto my shirt, her lips softly nursing in her sleep, I realized my own mother must have sat with me just like this. She rocked me. She fed me. Perhaps she even tried to memorize the perfect curl of my eyelashes.
I thought I had dealt with the grief and anger. Now, I faced new questions. How can a mother kiss her baby’s face for the first time and then walk away? How can someone abandon their heart in motherhood? Is there a darkness within me, waiting to transform me into a terrible mother who can simply close the door and leave?
According to Stacey Sherrell, a licensed marriage and family therapist specializing in maternal mental health, the resurgence of childhood trauma is not uncommon for new parents.
“Becoming a parent can be a complex process for those who have experienced trauma in their own childhood,” Sherrell explained. “It can be startling and unexpectedly retriggering to find yourself in the role previously occupied by your caregiver.”
I had processed my childhood trauma, but not as a parent. As I watched my daughter and later my son grow, I scrutinized myself. Was I capable of the same actions? Could any of us be capable of turning our backs on our own hearts? Or does her pain and trauma belong solely to her?
Gaining understanding and forgiveness
The night I truly comprehended my mother, I crouched on the floor of my daughter’s bedroom, my arm twisted between the crib slats to ensure my hand lay upon her back. I played the soothing melody of her glowworm until the tune reverberated in my ears long after it had ceased.
Slowly, I lifted my palm from her back, maintaining my fingertips’ contact, and painstakingly released each finger, one by one, in case she stirred. When it seemed safe, I extracted my arm through the slats and silently made my way across the floor, avoiding the creaking boards.
I shut the door and heaved a sigh of relief—sleep was nearly within reach. Then, she cried—once again.
In that sleep-deprived moment, I finally comprehended how mothers can walk away. Many things seem reasonable when you haven’t slept more than an hour at a time for three days. The frustration, the exhaustion, the incessant tune of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”—it’s enough to drive anyone mad.
Maybe even enough to make someone abandon it all? Especially when, like my mother, you’re young and mentally unprepared for motherhood. It dawned on me that I wasn’t my mother. I wasn’t the mother who walked away.
Instead, I returned to my spot on the floor of my daughter’s bedroom, switched on the infamous glowworm, and dozed off with my arm reaching through the crib slats, my hand gently resting on her warm back. Eventually, she fell asleep, as all children do. And I stayed, as most mothers do.
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