When I was in first grade, my parents divorced after constant fights and my father’s infidelity. Soon after, I was raised by a stepmother whose jealousy I had to carry alone—jealousy toward a father who only thought of himself.

So, I never learned how to be a mother from my own. Since childhood, I constantly read the room, stayed quiet to feel safe, avoided looking too close to my dad in fear of triggering jealousy. Love was conditional. Tears were something to be hidden.

By third grade, I understood what it meant to have sorrow stuck in your chest. I felt a weight, a dull ache that wouldn’t go away. I had nowhere to pour out my helplessness or pain, so I buried my face into a pile of blankets and screamed in silence. (I suppose that’s why I’ve become so good at enduring things—especially pain and discomfort.)

I didn’t even know what feelings I was suppressing, or what those emotions were. I just knew I had to hold them in.

So when I had a child of my own, I wasn’t overwhelmed by the fact that I’d become a mother— I was terrified. Could I be a mother?

I never imagined that becoming a mother would actually be a journey of facing myself.

Raising my daughter meant constantly meeting the child within me: the one who hadn’t been loved enough, whose feelings were dismissed, whose sadness and anger went unspoken.

Soothing my child often meant soothing myself. And in the moments I held my daughter close, I was also holding the little girl inside me.

This series is the record of a woman who is raising herself while raising her daughter. It’s about someone who didn’t know how to be a mother, learning day by day. It’s about someone who didn’t know how to give love, finally learning how.

And I hope this journey quietly reaches someone out there who needs a bit of comfort, too.

#motherhood #healing #innerchild #memoir #web3writing #lenswriters #NFTessay