I Had a Mother Who Stayed, But I Still Felt Unmothered
After all, I had a mother who stayed. A mother who worked hard. A mother who made hot food, braided my hair for school, reminded me to take my sweater, and never let me leave the house without eating.
That is what a good mother looks like, isn’t it?
That is what I believed too. Until one evening, when I forgot to soak the dal for dinner. I sighed and mumbled under my breath, “You can’t even remember one simple thing.” The words stung because they sounded too familiar.
They sounded like her.
I have so many memories of my childhood that are hard to explain.
Like the time I came home crying after being teased in school, and she told me to stop being dramatic and grow a thicker skin. Or the time I showed her my painting that had won second prize, and she said, “Why not first?”
She was not cruel. She was not abusive. She was practical. Focused. Tired. Maybe even overwhelmed. But what I remember the most is the cold space between us. It was like living in a house where everything was in order, but nothing ever felt warm.
In our home, we did not say "I love you." We did not ask each other how we were doing. We just moved through life like it was a checklist. Wake up. Cook. Study. Work. Be useful. Be quiet. Keep going.
When I moved to Mumbai for work, I thought I had outgrown it all. I was independent. I had a job, friends, freedom. But I started noticing things about myself that I could not explain.
I found it hard to ask for help, even when I was struggling.
I kept choosing people who were emotionally distant.
I felt guilty when I took a day off, even if I was sick.
I could never fully believe it when someone said they cared about me.
I thought it was just the way I was. Until I realised I had been shaped by a childhood where emotional needs were invisible, or worse, treated like weakness.
I remember one birthday dinner with friends, where someone said, “Sarah, you’re so easy to be around. You never expect anything.” Everyone laughed, even I did. But that night, I cried while brushing my teeth.
Because it was true. I never expected anything. Not because I was strong, but because I had learned not to. I had learned that needing something from someone often led to disappointment. And so, I became the girl who gave everything, asked for nothing, and quietly burned out.
My mother is still around. We talk once or twice a week. The conversations are polite and safe. We discuss groceries, power cuts, and relatives. She does not know about the silent pain I have carried for years. I do not have the courage to tell her.
And maybe that is not the point.
Healing is not always about fixing the relationship. Sometimes it is about understanding where the pain came from, and choosing not to carry it forward.
These days, I try to mother myself in small ways.
I let myself cry without feeling guilty.
I speak to myself kindly, especially on days when I make mistakes.
I take rest seriously. I cook what I like, not just what I was taught.
And when I feel the old voice creeping in, telling me I am not enough, I stop. I breathe. I say, “You are safe now.”
It is not perfect. I still get triggered. I still feel that empty space. But now, I no longer ignore it.
I sit with it. I listen. I stay.
If you are reading this and some part of it feels familiar, I want to tell you something important.
You are not ungrateful.
You are not imagining it.
You are not wrong for wishing your mother had been different.
And you are definitely not too much.
You were just a child who needed more warmth, more softness, more presence. And now, you are an adult trying to fill that gap with whatever gentleness you can find.
That is brave. That is healing.
And if no one has told you this before, let me be the one to say it.
You were always worthy of love.
Not because you earned it.
But simply because you existed.
