Mothering Myself

There are days I still crave the kind of love I never received.

The kind that held space without asking for silence in return.

The kind that didn’t make me earn softness.

I’ve spent years searching for that comfort in others —

wanting to be seen, held, understood.

But what I’ve learned is that sometimes,

you have to become the mother you needed.

Mothering myself isn’t always gentle.

Some days it’s a whisper —

“You’ve done enough, rest now.”

And some days, it’s a quiet rage —

the ache of realizing no one came when I needed them most.

It’s the ache of brushing my own hair back,

of bandaging wounds that no one else ever noticed.

It’s making peace with the version of me who begged to be loved

by those who were never capable of it.

Mothering myself means forgiving the world

for what it couldn’t give me —

and forgiving myself for all the ways I tried to survive that loss.

It’s not always soft.

Sometimes it’s lonely.

Sometimes it’s raw.

But it’s real —

and it’s mine.

Because now, when I look at the woman I’m becoming,

I see someone my inner child can finally run to

without fear of being too much.

I see a mother —

not to the world,

but to the little girl who still lives within me,

asking to be held,

and this time,

I never let her go.