For much of my life, I carried what I now understand as a Mother wound.
As the youngest of six, I longed for the kind of Mother I saw other children have. I remember looking at Moms on elementary-school field trips and feeling something deeper and more wholesome than jealousy or anger. It was a painful longing. A quiet, aching wish for someone who felt safe, steady, nurturing, truthful, and strong.
That wound followed me into adulthood and affected how I saw myself, my relationships, and even my years as a young Mother myself.
But recently, while riding my bike, something occurred to me that I had never considered before:
If I could choose any Mom in the world for myself, who would I choose?
I thought of women I admire—wise women, compassionate women, strong women, women who seemed to possess qualities I once wished my own Mother had.
But with each name came a realization: I wanted someone who was kind and strong. Someone who could comfort me but also tell me the truth. Someone who could pray with me, laugh with me, help me strategize through hard things, and then tell me to get back up and keep going.
None of those Moms seemed to have it all, a fit for every bottomless need I had in a Mothering sense.
And suddenly, the answer came.
I wouldn't choose anyone. I don't have a vacancy anymore. I have me. I would choose me.
Not because I’m perfect.
Because after years of recovery, therapy, faith, reflection, boundaries, failure, forgiveness, running, praying, grieving, and learning to tell myself the truth, I have become the woman I needed.
The little girl who once longed for someone to protect her has grown into a woman who knows how to protect her peace.
The girl who wondered if she was too sensitive has learned that sensitivity can be discernment.
The woman who once felt powerless has learned to face hard things.
And the person who once needed someone else to validate her reality has learned to trust herself.
That realization didn’t erase what I didn’t receive.
It simply showed me that I no longer need to spend my life searching for it.
I can grieve what was missing without being consumed by it. I can love my Mother today without rewriting yesterday. I can acknowledge the wounds without continuing to live out of them.
And perhaps that’s one of the most beautiful things about recovery:
Sometimes healing isn’t getting the childhood you wanted. It’s becoming the person you needed.
If I could sit beside that little girl today, I’d tell her:
You weren’t defective. You weren’t too much. You weren’t crazy. You weren’t the problem.
And one day, you’re going to become the woman you needed.
And now I know she did.
Doing our inner recovery work...works.
If I could choose any Mother in the world, I'd change nothing. I'd keep mine and I'd choose me.
Wishing you full circle healing,
Annie