Mothers & Daughters

I saw a post on social media recently that really spoke to me:

“Nobody talks about the part of being a cycle-breaking mom where you're exhausted and desperately need a mom, but not your mom. The kind of mom you wish you had. The kind that makes you feel safe, held, understood. Instead, you're the one doing that for everyone else while trying to figure it out as you go. That's a loneliness I don't think enough people talk about.”

If you’ve ever felt that—if you’ve ever needed a mothering you didn’t receive—please know you’re not alone.

The Daughter My Mother Wanted

I don’t remember much from my early childhood. But from photos and family stories, I know my mom was thrilled to finally have a daughter after two sons. In the pictures I look well cared for—neatly dressed, smiling, adorable. Everyone looks happy.

And yet my earliest memories aren’t of being comforted. They’re of me acting like the parent in our mother-daughter relationship.

Somehow, even as a child, I felt my mom depended on me. I felt responsible for her happiness. I learned to be “strong” for her. I often felt unloved and unappreciated, like everything was taken out on me. I don’t remember calling out for her when I was scared or hurt. I don’t remember reaching for her when I needed reassurance.

I didn’t realize how unusual that was until I got older. But I carried the weight of it anyway—and I paid for it.

Walking on Eggshells

Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I lived in a constant state of caution. I became skilled at reading the room—reading her mood—before she even spoke. I believed it was my job to make things better.

I also believed perfection would fix it.

If I did everything right, she would be happier. She would like me more. She wouldn’t take her frustrations out on me.

So I tried.

I got top grades. I worked hard. I tried to look my best. I bought her gifts “just because.” I tried to be the kind of daughter who couldn’t possibly disappoint anyone.

But none of it helped.

And it cost me.

I became anorexic. I developed ulcers. I was never satisfied with myself. I used alcohol to escape a sadness I couldn’t name yet—because the way I had learned to survive didn’t leave room for my feelings. Only hers.

For a long time, I told myself it was because I was a girl. I had to believe that, because my mom favored my brothers over me. My grandma also preferred my brothers and didn’t even attempt to conceal her dislike for me. How does a child process that? How do you not take it personally and grow up believing something is wrong with you?

As I grew up and moved out, my mom believed we had a good relationship—that we were friends. But I never felt I could be myself around her. I pretended everything was fine when we spent time together, even though I didn’t want to be there. I had been taught to feel responsible for her happiness, so I didn’t have the tools to change the dynamic. I simply continued as things were.

I didn’t understand boundaries then. We never practiced being honest and open about our feelings. Looking back, I can see how much anger and resentment I carried.

Becoming a Mother

When I became a mother, I vowed to do better.

Almost instantly, my mom turned into an incredible grandmother—showering my children with the love and comfort I had never experienced. At first, I had two sons, and I wondered if her tenderness was because they were boys.

But when I had a daughter, my mom treated her the way I had always wished to be treated. It was wonderful—and it was also deeply confusing.

Wonderful, because that’s what I wanted for my daughter.

Confusing, because I had always believed I was treated differently for being a girl… and now my daughter was receiving something I never did.

I spent years reflecting on my relationship with my mom, and I gained a lot of insight along the way. Gradually, I began to heal. I discovered I could forgive her even without receiving an apology. I came to understand that she was probably doing her best—and that her own unhealthy mother-daughter relationship shaped the way she mothered me. I also learned how to set boundaries.

A Moment of Clarity

When my mom first became ill with Alzheimer’s—and after she broke her arm—I was driving her somewhere. She stared out the windshield for a while, and then she said that since she broke her arm and I’d been helping so much, she felt very close to me and loved me deeply.

She said she always had.

And then she acknowledged something I had never heard her say before: that she wasn’t very loving toward me when I was growing up.

I told her, “We all do the best we can with what we know.”

She said she saw the special relationship my daughter and I share, and she regretted that we didn’t have that.

Before that moment, I had never heard her acknowledge her role as my mother in any real way. I often questioned whether I had misunderstood everything. I wondered if I had done something as a child to deserve the way I was treated.

I had already forgiven my mom through my own work. But hearing her admit it didn’t bring relief the way I imagined it might.

Honestly, it just made me feel sad.

Sad for her, and sad for me—for all those years of feeling unloved and unwanted. There’s no doubt I’ve suffered throughout my life because of it.

Grief, and What I’ve Made of It

My mom is still with us physically, but I’ve been mourning her loss for years. Alzheimer’s is a slow and harsh sentence. I’ll never have the chance to say the things that have remained unsaid all these years.

But that’s alright, because I’m not sure I ever would have.

I never really tried to share my feelings with her. I believed she was too fragile to handle them. In so many ways, I continued to feel responsible for her happiness. I believed I needed to be the one to endure—to accept things as they were.

I don’t enjoy feeling sorry for myself, and I don’t want pity. But there are times I cry for the little girl who not only lacked a mother figure, but had to become one far too early.

And I think that’s okay.

It’s okay to mourn what you missed—as long as you don’t stay trapped there.

I’ve taken what I’ve learned and worked hard to build a loving, healthy mother-daughter relationship with my own daughter. I’m grateful for the lessons that helped me get here.

The Loneliness No One Talks About

When you grow up feeling responsible for your mother, you don’t just lose a childhood—you lose a place to rest.

You learn to be the caretaker, the peacemaker, the one who “handles it.” You become the person who shows up for everyone else while quietly wondering why no one ever showed up for you.

And then, later, when you become a mother yourself—especially if you’re trying to break cycles—you may find yourself exhausted in a very specific way.

Not just tired from parenting.

Tired from parenting without having been parented.

Tired from giving what you never received.

Tired from needing comfort and realizing the person you want it from is the very person who couldn’t give it.

That kind of grief can feel lonely, confusing, and even shameful—like you should be “over it” by now. But grief doesn’t work that way. Neither does healing.

What I’m Learning Now

I’m learning that it wasn’t my job to carry my mother.

I’m learning that a child’s job is to be a child.

I’m learning that my needs mattered then—and they matter now.

And I’m learning that breaking cycles isn’t just about what we stop doing. It’s also about what we finally allow ourselves to receive: support, tenderness, safety, and the right to be imperfect.

A Question for You

Have you ever felt like you needed a mom—but not *your* mom?

If you’re comfortable sharing, I’d love to hear:

- What did you need most back then?

- What do you need now?

- What has helped you begin to heal?

You’re not alone.