Mother: A Word I Still Struggle To Define

I wasn’t bitter, just… blank. A silence where there should’ve been memories.

I used to feel confused, sometimes even numb, when I watched touching mother-daughter moments on TV. Those scenes would stir something inside me, something I couldn’t name. I'd sit there wondering: Do mothers really love and sacrifice so deeply for their children? Or are these just well-scripted fantasies?

The truth is, I didn’t grow up with a reference point for what a nurturing, present mother looks like. My counselor once told me that it’s hard to feel connected to something you’ve never experienced. And that made sense. I wasn’t bitter, just… blank. A silence where there should’ve been memories.

Still, questions would come. The what ifs that never seem to go away.

What if my mother had stayed?

What if she had loved us the way the world says mothers should?

Would I be different? Would life be softer?

But those questions, I’ve learned, have no finish line. They loop endlessly and drain more than they give. The past happened. And it doesn't change no matter how many times I rewind it in my head.

So I’ve stopped trying to fix the past with my imagination.

Instead, I choose to anchor myself in what’s real:

My sisters, who’ve become more than family, but soul companions.

The friends who show up when it matters.

The quiet strength I’ve built brick by brick.

The laughter of my dog.

The ability to sit with myself and not run away.

The softness I offer others, even when I wasn't taught how to receive it.

I may never fully understand what it means to be mothered.

And now, I also have to accept that I may never become a mother myself.

When I was finally ready—when I believed I could break the cycle and offer a love I never had—I was met with a fibroid diagnosis that made the choice for me. I didn’t get the luxury of exploring fertility treatments or procedures. Financial insecurity was always hovering, and my partner at the time couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stand in this fight beside me. The solution existed, maybe. But access didn’t. And now, close to 40, the window narrows each day.

I won't pretend it doesn’t hurt. Some days, the grief comes quietly and pulls my mood down like a tide. Not because I gave up, but because the choice was never really mine.

I don’t want to be a single mother. Not in this chaotic dating culture where connection feels so temporary. And yet, that doesn’t mean I’m weak. It doesn’t mean I gave up. It means I chose myself, again.

I am not heartless.

I am not lost.

I am someone who is still becoming.

And I am still learning how to mother myself.

And maybe, just maybe, motherhood isn’t only about raising children, it’s also about the ways we learn to care for ourselves, to protect our hearts, and to grow something new out of what was once pain.

No, it’s not the story I once wished for.

But it’s mine.

And I’m learning to live it: fully, fiercely, and with grace.

That, to me, is enough.