To say I have complicated feelings about motherhood would be an understatement. Growing up with a mother whose moods were difficult to predict was challenging. It later became clear that her struggles with alcohol contributed to this unpredictability. She was reluctant to seek help, trying therapy only a handful of times before dismissing it, claiming that the therapists didn’t see any issues (which isn’t how therapy functions). My childhood was shaped by a mother who often made poor choices for me, twisting events and memories to fit her narrative, where she was always the victim.
I was raised by a woman who drank excessively and frequently. It wasn’t until I became an adult, married, and had children of my own that I truly recognized the extent of her problems. I watched her life unravel, her health decline, and her refusal to confront her addiction, even when facing life-threatening consequences.
Years ago, I made the difficult decision to cut my mother out of my life. This was the most challenging yet healthiest choice I’ve ever made for myself and my family. In my close-knit Greek family, no one had ever done this before, making me the first to attempt to break the cycle of dysfunction that had gripped our family for generations. Through therapy, I began to uncover memories I once deemed harmless—choices my mother made that, in hindsight, were clearly harmful. Did she provide me with food and shelter? Yes. Was I physically abused? No. Did she always strive to present our lives as happier than they were? Absolutely. The emotional neglect was rampant. Her lack of support and love has left its mark on me.
Today, I only communicate with her during medical emergencies, yet I often find myself yearning for the mother I never had—the mother who could have loved, supported, and valued me as I do for my own children. I wish she could have been more present and nurturing. I long for the kind of support system my husband’s parents provide effortlessly. I am excited to be the kind of mother my children can turn to at any time, day or night.
I will be there for my kids during both significant and trivial moments. They won’t have to worry about whether I’m too drunk to help them or feel they can’t reach out because I would make their joy about my own struggles.
A few years ago, before I distanced myself from my mother, I experienced the loss of a friend. Late one snowy night, I shared my grief on social media. At midnight, my mother called, but I chose to ignore it. I later answered my father’s call, who was slurring his words and asking about what happened, while my mother screamed and cried in the background as if she were the one grieving. This moment was about everything else for my parents, but not my pain. My children will never witness that kind of selfishness from me or my husband. They will know they can rely on me, trust me, and lean on me as I’ve always wished I could do with my own mother.
I know that the longing for a mom who will never exist may never completely fade. While it brings sadness, I strive to rise above self-pity when I find myself dwelling there. I remind myself that this ends with me. I am the change that generations of my family have awaited. Though I’m far from perfect, I know I can be better than those who came before me. I am the mother that never was.
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In summary, my journey has led me to take a stand against the past, choosing to create a loving and supportive environment for my children, one that I wish I had experienced myself.