When Mothering Gets Real

Being a mother of adults is a gift to me…but it has its moments.

There are times my kids do not remember things the way I do. Sometimes they only remember certain sharp, hard pieces of a story, usually the parts that felt bad to them. There are times they confide in me about a moment when I hurt them, disappointed them, or just flat out missed it.

And there is a part of me that wanted to scream, “What the hell are you talking about? Don’t you remember all the things I did for you? All the times I sacrificed for you?”

If you wanted to pull the chain in my heart, just question my mothering.

But what my heart really wanted to say is this: I loved you so much…maybe too much. You were my everything and my purpose for being. I put too much responsibility on you to be that for me, and even more responsibility on myself to be the kind of mother society taught me to be. Nothing in my life has given me as much joy as being your mom.

I tried.  So hard. I learned about healthy food and how it affects a long, strong life. I made sure it was on their plates. I worked around their schedules so I could be with them as much as possible, and they knew how important they were to me. I set boundaries, taught respect, and wanted my children to use their own minds. We questioned and researched, and talked things out. I tried to demonstrate that they were divine gifts just the way they were.

And…but, I also told them to follow the rules at school. I lost my patience sometimes. I told them to hold their tongue. I reminded them to always be kind and think of others first. Most of this was fine. But we did not always talk about the moments when it wasn’t. So they made up their own stories about those times, and sometimes those stories did not serve them…at all.

I tried to be a present mom, as much as a single working mother can be. I sat in bleachers, folding chairs, and hard auditorium seats because they were out there doing something…games, parades, ceremonies, concerts, and different events. I wanted them to know I was there. Always there, or a phone call away.

I was also the mom who quietly tied my worth to their “outcomes.” Their success felt like mine. Their struggle felt like mine too, and sometimes that rubbed me raw, and I reacted, instead of responded.

I was not perfect. But it felt crucial to think I was, because I loved them that much. And in that tangle of love and duty and fear of failing, my ego was right there in the mix.

As they became adults, we became friends who truly cherished each other. Still, there was a thin line we rarely crossed. We all sensed it. If we stepped over it, someone might bleed (not literally 🙂). 

And that brings me to this...one thing I am truly grateful for is that my children caught my hunger for self-discovery. My desire to keep uncovering who I really am and becoming a more authentic version of myself. That kind of path takes effort, patience, and courage. A lot of courage.

All three of my “kids”... Bill, Amy, and Taylor... are on their own version of that path. Sometimes that means they have to speak straight to me about something that has been sitting in their hearts for years...or even hours.

Nothing hurts more. And nothing makes me prouder.

Because I know them, I know they do not come to me to take a swing. They come to me to lay something down. To let go of the junk they have carried so they can move forward lighter. If it were not necessary, they would not say it. They trust that I can handle it. They know I am on my own journey and that truth-telling is part of loving well.

It took a long time to get here. A lot of it was me learning to set my ego aside…the part that needed to be the perfect mom, the one who was always right. It meant seeing my kids not as extensions of me, but as their own beautiful, complicated people.  It meant letting these new “friends” of mine... my grown children... hand back the pieces that did not belong to them. The guilt, the expectations, the stories they had been carrying. At first, it felt like a threat. Then, slowly, it felt like a blessing.

Over time, it became easier and so much more fulfilling. Our bond and our friendship became more honest, less fragile, and stronger than ever before.

My wings appeared the day I stopped defending my mothering and started really listening instead. The day I let them tell the whole truth about how it felt to be my child. When I encouraged my grown kids to shine like the stars they are, in their own sky, my Goddess wings stretched wide and breathed in the love.

This story is part of our upcoming book, “Her Wings Appeared…”, a collection of real, imperfect, deeply human moments when women felt their own wings finally unfurl. If you felt something in this story of Goddess Mothering, you just got a glimpse of one of the many stories that will be in the book.

Love is ALL there is.

Diana