This weekend would have been my mom’s 70th birthday. August 2nd will mark 6 years since she passed and if I’m honest, I only recently started dealing with this profound loss. Her death sent me into a wild downward trajectory, the depths of which I am still hesitant to explain in detail. But now, solid in my recovery, I am safe to explore our relationship. I can learn self-mothering skills and move forward in a way that might make her proud of the woman I have become.

My mom was stunning, meticulous with her appearance, and naturally turned heads everywhere we went. She kept her hair in loose curls, blonder every year, and wore stilettos to match every perfectly planned outfit. Her smile was wide and showed her perfect teeth; she had a habit of showing it even when her eyes didn’t match.

She was a people pleaser, hated confrontation, and held onto her mother’s antiquated view of women in the world. She earned a graduate degree in education but felt more comfortable teaching at the local middle school than taking on more. While she would bend to give the world what it asked of pretty women, she had a hard line those who loved her knew not to cross. She loved my little sister and I fiercely. She was protective and tried to give us the world without struggle. I realize now, she sacrificed all of herself for us. Including her own relationships. Even the marriage to the love of her life. When my dad’s addiction forced us into second place, she divorced him.

There was this time before the drinking, for both of us.

A time when my mother’s smile, much like my own, could change the color of the room. Her brown eyes would sparkle like she knew some secret and was just about to share it. Her slender body could barely contain the anticipation of letting everyone around in on the key she had discovered and kept hidden in the pocket of her stonewashed jeans. I was always the first to be let in on the private information. Even as a girl, too young to know how unprepared I was, I’d sit on her bathroom stool, white fringe from the seat tickling the backs of my tanned knees, and listen wide-eyed while she teased her blond hair higher, painted her long nails red and told me about the dates she lined up for the weekend.

It wasn’t until I began borrowing her red nail polish that I realized I’d learned much more than the names of men and the restaurants they preferred. I was learning where my value rested, in the cleavage she never told me to cover up, insisting I was lucky at twelve to have a chest twice as large as hers. 

Those nights I felt honored to be her confidant, graduating from daughter to friend.

I felt like I was helping her with so much more than deciding what dress looked best with which heels. Through my help I gained her approval, the feeling I’d chase for decades to follow, long after she was gone.

But she married my stepdad without spending much time single, without learning to love and trust herself. I suppose even the facade of stability meant more to her than the uncertainty of independence.

After they married, she started drinking. Not every night at first and generally not more than she thought socially acceptable. I remember her singing Cindy Lauper “Girls just wanna have fun,” declaring it her life motto. We didn’t worry. I thought she was just doing what adults do, drinking to relax. Drinking to have fun. Eventually, she started hiding booze in her bathroom cupboard and under baskets of clothes in her fully stocked walk-in closet. Dinner was done when her words started to slur and I’ll never forget the first time I picked her up off of her bathroom floor.

It wasn’t fun anymore.

The divorce divided our new situation before it even began. My stepbrother eventually joined the family and moved into the house my mom designed and built with my dad. But her sense of trust was violated; we lived in teams – boys and girls – separate and not equal. They had the power to make decisions, to have their needs and wants met; we were skeptical and existed to meet them.

The older I got, the more I resented her. I understood why she drank; she was lonely and depressed. But I didn’t yet understand why she stayed. Traumatized by loss – the death of my twin sister (a blog for a different day) and divorce from my dad – she didn’t know how to heal. Tears fill my eyes thinking of the isolation she suffered in. I have to remind myself that as a teenager I was not equipped to save her. And as a young woman, I was just as sick.

As my addiction grew from college parties to a prescription pills and DUI’s, I think I blamed her for not being emotionally available. For being my friend instead of my mom. I blamed her for not seeing my sickness and making me quit. But every time my addiction became evident, I would wrap her in rationalizations and justifications to prevent her from seeing me for what I was. Now that she’s gone, I realize what I regret the most.

We enabled each other.

I regret never sending her to rehab. The nights I hung up on her, saying I couldn’t listen to another drunk ramble, now replay when I close my eyes. If I were sober, I would have called back in the morning and told her how much I loved her. Instead, I avoided the topic, washed it away with some Xanax and my own overflowing glass of wine. I was emotionally empty. Lacking all sense of integrity, I did anything to only feel what I could control.

I am glad she wasn’t around to see who I became after she died. Desperate and self-destructive, I ruined every relationship and only protected my kids by letting them go live with their dad. My rock bottom looked different than hers. Now I realize it probably felt very much the same. More importantly, I know she loved us and did the very best she could with everything she had. She got sober before the end, yet the damage was done. Her body gave out from decades of abuse. I try to find some comfort in the fact that she knew a moment of calm before she passed.

Losing my mom was a lesson learned.

Albeit not soon enough, she taught me that I am worth taking care of. She is missing loving her grandchildren as they grow into the amazing young people she would surely be proud of. I will honor her by raising them to speak their truth and show them her love through me. For her, I will hold space for my twin sister and hope that their reunification has made my mom a little less lonely. But most importantly, I will live a sober life, true to myself and try to bring a little light into the world. I will continue to find ways to let go of the guilt and allow myself to grieve her loss. Self-mothering is one way to share what I have learned. I couldn’t help her but there are many others that my story might inspire.

How to self-mother (the verb, not the noun).

What does it mean to remother yourself and why is it so critical for our growth as women? (anniewright.com) (Read this for a deep dive into how to nurture yourself and practice self-mothering.)

Self-mothering (also called “re-mothering”) is exactly what it sounds like. Providing yourself with the nurturing wisdom and comfort you may not have received from your own flesh-and-blood. Or perhaps, you’re like me and the generation before you are all but gone. Self-mothering works to provide different experiences with yourself to help fill in any developmental gaps or unmet needs that are interfering with your ability to engage with and enjoy life.

Annie Wright LMFT explains “while the benefits of this work may look different for all of us, essentially at the core of more conscious, active remothering work is the possibility of a more cohesive, integrated and grounded sense of self which can immeasurably contribute to our ability to show up for and more consciously engage with our own lives.”

There are as many ways to practice self-mothering as there are reasons to try it. From honoring your emotions and asking for help to creating a calming nighttime routine and making sure your physical needs are met, but the gist is fairly simple.

First consider what actions, thoughts, or beliefs would be in alignment with the mother you need. Name them. What actions, thoughts, or beliefs did you not receive from your mother (or did receive but could use/want more of) that they you may cultivate?

Sit with those feelings, not matter how uncomfortable. Grieve for the little you who’s needs were not met, for the you who felt alone or maybe survived abuse. Celebrate the mothering acts you learned and valued. Then find ways to surround yourself with those values, with loving nurture and begin to meet those needs yourself.

Self-mothering is not only for people in recovery, or those of us who have lost our mom’s or even those with difficult childhoods. Everyone can benefit from taking better care to meet their emotional and even physical needs, self-mothering can show you how. Please check out Annie Wright’s website and the how-to link below, but most importantly, reach out for professional help if you are struggling.

• About me
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• Sober and brave. Sobbrave.
• Table of Contents
  • My First Time.
  • Recovery and being brave: how to set goals and live creatively.
  • What is rational recovery?

• How to survive wildfires (and 2024.)
• Unmasking: choosing to live a more congruent life.
• Truth: Learning to Trust and the practice of Satya.
• Acceptance and Self-worth: the best parts of addiction.
• Growth and Fear of Success.

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