When my mother was a little girl, she dreamed of being a firefighter. She dreamed of helping others by running into the fire, saving their lives, saving their families. An Aries, she’s ruled by fire and the planet of Mars. She’s a headstrong woman, she knows what she wants, she gets it, eventually. It would shock her colleagues and friends alike to learn that she’d taken orders from anyone other than herself. But underneath this brash exterior, my mother holds the desire to please others.
This trait is surprisingly close to the surface, which may shock you further, sure, but it’s true. If you don’t get to know her, you’d think she’s stubborn in her opinions, or maybe selfish. But more than anything, she desires fairness and justice in all aspects of her life. Often the buffer between teachers and students, as a counselor, my mother mediated conflicts otherwise swept aside by school administration.
This doesn’t just translate itself into her professional life, it’s in her personal life, too. From a young age, respect and drive for her academic achievement was beaten into her by her father. She watched her siblings fail to get this treatment from him. But as years passed, she began to think something was wrong with her. Feelings of inadequacy bloomed and followed her through her life. This feeling never truly went away.
The bond between a mother and daughter is complicated. Psychologists can explain the nature of nurture’s effect, but the inexplicable feeling - the melancholy, desperation, shame - of daughterhood and motherhood is unique to each individual.
When I ask her if I was an accident, she tells me she prayed for me. I’ll put it this way, my mother loves me the way she knew how. It’s not the way a mother’s love was shown to me on television, but it’s still love isn’t it? But just as her feelings of inadequacy developed because of her parents, it grew in me as well. The cycle of generational trauma is malevolent, and despite our toughest fights, the best intentions are clouded by hurt that was never healed.
There’s generational trauma that poisons the distance between us. My mother hasn’t been seen in her life, but she’s all I see. She’s always in my thoughts. I can’t communicate how central she is to my life. But she’s my mom. She sees me as I am (which shocks me because I feel so invisible to her sometimes. I know she may not realize that I see her too.).
My mother, my mom, Mom, she’s so much of everything in me it’s difficult to dissect who I am without her. When I was young, I resented her so deeply, but I craved the love she didn’t give me, couldn’t give me, and I’m growing to understand this fault lies on no one.
When we stop and look into our souls, we can often shock ourselves. It’s a lot like looking into a mirror. We see our father’s nose and eye shape, our mother’s cheekbones. We see his aloofness, his vulnerability. Her haughtiness, her desire to do the right thing. Her self-esteem. Her shortcomings. I see so much of my mother in myself that it’s jarring. I’m a spitting image of my dad, but I am my mother’s child. (“You’re just like your mother,” my father had stated. Only once, but it’s not something that will leave my head any time soon.)
When I’m angry with her, I hate this. I haven’t been able to find the love in this realization.
Her experiences aren’t for nothing. When you grow up, it’s so easy to underestimate your impact on life, but parenthood is tricky business. As I enter my twenties, I realize that I don’t have the world, or even myself figured out. She’s always figuring things out about me long before I ever realize it. I’m lucky to have a mother who isn’t afraid to love me. We’ve taught each other love in a way that she didn’t learn as a child. If I’m feeling ignored I know it’s because her mother wasn’t affectionate like other mothers. We pass on what we know because it’s all we comprehend. But she’s tried with everything to understand me, and in kind I’m able to do this for her. Her desire for fairness is one trait I gained from her that I’ll never take for granted.