When I was a little girl, you’d brush my hair on your good days, and back then I didn’t understand. You hurt me, you were angry, and I know you’re sorry- I forgive you. Hold on, and bear with me through this. This isn’t about shame, this is about healing.
Two things can be true at the same time. And back then I didn’t understand why you were so angry, I didn’t understand what I did to make you hurt me, to cause you to abuse your own child. But I understand now that it had nothing to do with me. It wasn't my fault. And I forgive you.
I read a poem recently, heavy is the crown that sits on the head of the eldest daughter, the practice child, the parentified daughter, the one who grew up too soon, the Mommy's little helper, free babysitter daughter. And as I gaze back into the storm that is my childhood, I realize you never spoke much about yours.
You too were a little girl once. I often wonder what you were like. What were your dreams, what did you imagine yourself growing up to be. Maybe your childhood was like mine, or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was mostly good, maybe it was mostly bad. But you still understand the weight that sits on the shoulders of the eldest daughter because you too were the eldest daughter.
I know you love being a mother. Remember though, two things can be true at the same time. You can love being a mother and still feel the sting of what could have been. You went to college to be a structural engineer. I always brag to people about how my mom designed bridges.
You gave it all up to be a mother. But maybe you weren’t ready yet. Maybe you weren’t prepared well enough by your mother and she by hers. And the pain she passed down to you, you passed down to me because you didn’t know what else to do with it. And for that, I forgive you.
I have no idea what scars little you carried in her heart into adulthood. And I don’t blame you for passing the pain you were given down to me. But it ends here. It ends with us.
I’m reaching out my hand to you, so take it. Let’s heal the generational wounds that have been passed down from mother to daughter for centuries.
This is what it is to be the eldest daughter. And I carry that title with pride now, because it connects me to you.
But I want you to know I see you. The pain you held, it was never meant to be mine. But it was never meant to be yours either. Your mother handed it to you, as you did to me. And for that I’m so sorry.
I hope that time has been able to begin the healing of wounds within you as it has for me. And I hope you know that I see you trying. I see you trying to make up for my broken childhood. I see you mom.
I can’t see into your heart, but I can try to put myself in your shoes now that I’m older. Now that I can see with clear eyes. Two things can be true at once. I know you love your children and are so blessed in this life. But I’m sure you, as any human being, also hold regrets, unrealized dreams, things lost, things you’ve never spoken about and maybe never will.
I don’t believe in heaven, at least not in the same way as you. But I hope that when you find your way to heaven, all your wounds will be healed. I hope that you will find everything you’ve ever lost in life waiting for you behind those golden gates. I hope that you will feel your pain lifted.
I know that is a long time from now and I hope it will be as long as possible. And we don’t have to wait for the next life to begin healing these wounds. We can start now.
Because every time I look in the mirror I see your eyes. Every time I write my name, I think of you. I will always be your little girl. I don’t know what unhealed pain caused you to be so angry, to hurt me so deeply. But I do know that you are my mother no matter what, and I am your daughter.
And although I can’t know what it is like to be you, because I have never been you, I can understand better now that I am older and wiser. Because you too were a little girl once, and a teenager, and then a young adult.
I often want to ask about your life but I don’t know how. What were you like as a teenager? What were your friends like? What did you do for fun? What was college like?
I have heard little bits of your story here and there. But I want to know more of your story. Because it’s not just the story of my mother. It’s the story of the strongest woman I know. A woman who not only birthed, raised, and homeschooled 6 children but who also prepared meals, cooked, cleaned, and so much more. It’s the story of the woman who taught me everything I know.
I have so much I want to say to you. And I don’t know why I’m crying as I type this. You’re only 50. But it feels like time is going by so fast. I want to write a beautiful story with the time we have left. Together, we can end this.
This passing down of pain from mother to daughter to granddaughter and so on. This passing down of dreams unspoken, hopes unrealized, bitterness turned to anger, pain turned to deep wounds. It can end here.
My heart often hurts to think of all the women who came before me, who didn't have a choice. The ones who weren't lucky enough to live in a time when they had a choice. Generations of women who had to swallow their dreams to be bound to a man. Sold off to husbands like trophies, reduced to nothing more than a womb by the men who saw them as nothing more than breeding mares. It got better over time, but the generational pain was still passed from mother to daughter and daughter to granddaughter.
As each generation passed it was handed down like a family heirloom. This is what it is to be a woman they said, and they handed it to their daughter. Unrealized dreams turned bitter, unspoken what ifs turned to poison and bitterness. Heavy is the crown that sits. And this crown has been passed down through generations of women.
And then you handed it to me. But you handed it to me too soon. I was a little girl, a child. Your pain was never mind to carry just as your mother's was never yours.
You can put it down now. I will put it down too. This curse can be broken with our generation, with you and me.
I am glad that you got to marry someone you love, and I know you love being a mother. Not like the women before us who didn't have a choice. But you also had a lot of pain. I know you did because you expressed it with your violence. I said it before, and I will say it again, I forgive you.
I will always need you mom, I will always be your daughter. No matter what happens, I carry you with me everywhere I go. I love you so much mom. I don’t know exactly how heavy the weight you have carried is, but I can imagine it is similar to the one I have carried. So let’s put it down together. It won’t be easy, but it is worth it.