The Mirror of Motherhood
The chance to rewrite my story came from the decision to be my own mother.
Sometimes I wake with anxiety about my kids. And often, the story playing in my mind sounds like, this is probably my fault.
It has become instinctual to turn the anxious energy I feel back toward myself. After all, self-blame has always felt more predictable. If I can find fault with myself in their behavior, then maybe I can find a way to fix it.
This inward turmoil has a backstory. Blame is not a stranger to me. I used to feel the weight of it growing up. When nothing else made sense, it became a way to cope with the chaos.
It was a cathartic arrangement. If I could forge these uncomfortable feelings into daggers, no matter where I aimed them—myself or someone else—I might be able to tame the unrest.
Motherhood has a way of holding up our reflection when we least expect it. This made it all too easy to condemn myself, as I would often see more than just what was showing up in the moment… I was in a room lined with mirrors, endlessly repeating all the possible mistakes I’ve made, from every angle.
The reflection I found most painful was the version of myself that would lash out in a desperate attempt to find relief from my own scrutiny. This volatile deal I had made with myself, exploding or imploding to avoid the vulnerability of actual accountability, was exhausting. What I craved was a way to soothe my own pain. To feel less like a failure. To feel like I had something to draw from as I tried to pave a path for my kids that defied history.
It is complicated, though, because motherhood’s mirror has also given me pause to find myself. Seeing those echoing replays of my flaws helped me notice the relationship I had with the woman staring back at me. I started to see what this tension had created, along with a chance to try something different. A chance to rewrite the story.
Her name was empathy, wisdom, and grace. She spoke to me in a motherly song, timid and earnest in the same breath, for she was still finding her voice. It felt reassuring and alarming. I flinched at first when I heard her. But slowly, her honey-like words gave me respite from the ache I felt inside.
The chance to rewrite my story came from the decision to be my own mother. To re-parent myself with a tangible sense of love and belonging. Each time I felt like I was stuck in that house of mirrors, I would try to imagine this mother-part of me stepping forward.
For a long time I’ve been holding myself in this tension, between empathy and the fear of failing my kids. And then one morning, wisdom whispered something beautiful. She reminded me that my purpose was not to fix what felt wrong with me by weaving atonement through my motherhood. I could understand why I had clung to the fantasy that perfecting my children might somehow create renewed versions of myself. But my purpose was far more poetic and meaningful than that.
It was a moment when something traveled from my head to my heart, though I was a long way from no longer needing the reminder. I was learning that my place as a mother was not to have everything figured out. Motherhood is nuanced and so multifaceted, but one of its most foundational insights for me has been that I can allow it to participate in my healing without making my children responsible for it.
And my hope is that as I heal through these sobering moments when I am triggered by what I see of myself in my kids, I am creating the kind of motherly embrace my children can feel safe within. The kind of relationship where they are free to explore, feel, and develop their own story without having to survive mine.
I’m learning that safety is not the same as perfection.
The temptation to manage what the mirror shows me by flaring up with blame is something I may always feel. But what I am practicing is more acceptance. For my child in their moment of pain, need, or overwhelm. For myself as a mother who is still learning. And for things that are hard, that go wrong, and mistakes that are made.
I’m also practicing more empathy, yes, for myself, but also for my kids. More accountability and repair. More listening and sincere apologies. Less correction and more space around the ruptures.
I’m also practicing tending to my inner world. Acknowledging the younger me and her anguish as the presence of my mother-part emboldens her to show me more of herself. As she heals through this experience of acceptance and repair, my capacity to offer more of that to my kids only seems to grow.
In all of this, I have realized that what triggers me is often a doorway into learning how to meet some unmet needs. And in the throes of motherhood, the parts of me that have been most deprived can become loud. They can tangle with what feels like a lack of capacity to be with the mess, noise, and emotional demand. For so long, this lack of capacity felt like shame or guilt, especially in my own reach for constant joy and delight as a mom… an impossible and unrealistic standard.
When I allow my child their humanity, struggles, and discomforts without collapsing into self-blame or rushing to fix things to avoid the feeling of failure, I find her: empathy, wisdom, and grace, embracing me in my wobbly attempt to keep showing up. What I once felt was impossible to conjure up has now become something I can cultivate. Mother to mother, I am giving myself what I needed to draw from all those times I felt my only option was blame.
Now I can see the moment, my reflection, and the trigger. I can notice the urge to grab that dagger and, more often than not, stay with it all: the complexity, the ache, the growing pains. I lean into that motherly embrace within and feel the steadiness she offers.
Perhaps one of the most poignant acts of self‑love.
To love and accept a child who mirrors your own faults and limitations. To stay present with someone who touches the parts of you you’ve tried to hide. To meet them with empathy and simply be with them, without needing to change or solve anything, is to reach deep into your own story of rejection and offer it a mother’s love.
With a voice that whispers: You are loved in your imperfections.
