What I’m Sitting With This Mother’s Day
As the Adult Child of a Narcissistic Mother
Mother’s Day weekend is always emotionally layered for me. In the past, I’ve had so much to say—reflections, insights, encouragement.
But this year, I just feel... tired.
It’s a kind of exhaustion that’s been building over the past decade—the cumulative weight of doing my own healing around the “mother wound,” while also holding space for others as they navigate theirs.
In my therapy practice, I have the privilege of working with women who are kind, insightful, and emotionally attuned—truly remarkable in every way. And yet, so many of them move through life without ever feeling deeply loved, valued… or even just feeling seen.
Witnessing that longing—for care, for recognition, for even the most basic emotional support—is profoundly moving. At times, I catch myself feeling angry, wanting to do something—to shake some sense into the people who can’t or won’t show up for them.
But I know my role isn’t to fix what’s broken out there. It’s to stay present. To bear witness. For them, and for myself. And to trust that presence, in and of itself, is deeply meaningful—even when it doesn’t feel like enough.
In my personal journey, I’ve had to do the slow, hard work of not just grieving the mother I didn’t have, but also reclaiming my own story. I work constantly to stay grounded in what I can shift, in what I can take ownership of. And that’s messy terrain—especially if you come from narcissistic family dynamics or dysfunctional systems that taught you to silence yourself or chronically question your worth.
It’s tempting to get stuck in the hurt. There are moments when I feel I circle the wound over and over again, as if staring into it long enough will finally make sense. Sometimes I think of The Odyssey—how Odysseus loses precious time listening to the Sirens. Or for my fellow Harry Potter nerds, that moment when Harry becomes entranced by the Mirror of Erised, lost in the image of the departed parents, unable to look away (for me this is the family I WISH I HAD!).
That fixation can feel like mourning with no end. So I’ve learned (am learning, still) to gently pull myself back to the present.
To keep living.
To make my own plans.
Build new friendships.
Say yes to new experiences.
and refuse to let the absence of parental love define the shape of my life.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about motherhood—my potential motherhood. I’m 40 now, and people ask why I hadn’t thought about having a child sooner. Some even say it with an edge, like it’s a judgment. And I want to shout, “If you understood the things I’ve had to carry in my family, you’d get why!”
Because it’s not just about biology or timing—it’s about healing lineage trauma, about trying to create something you never had without recreating what you escaped. That kind of consideration takes time. It takes courage.
This year, my Mother’s Day message from your “buttoned up therapist” is to let you in on my wound a little. Because I actually think that helps a lot at times. To really see the truth that many of us have a lot of messiness on the healing journey.
You are not alone. You’re not bad if you haven’t “figured it all out” Actually, we like you so much in your unfinished journey. I’ve concluded that’s where the magic lies.
Yesterday, I struggled to reach out to a close friend about something deeply painful. I realized—I still find it hard to build and trust close emotional relationships. And yet, I yearn for that intimacy. I always have. The mother wound doesn’t just affect how we feel about our parents—it impacts how we experience connection, love, and safety with others. Even after years of work.
So this is where I’m at: still healing, still hopeful, still doing the next right thing. Not waiting for perfect closure or a family reconciliation that may never come. Just continuing to live and love, as fully as I can, in the present.
If any part of this resonates, I hope it helps you feel even a little bit less alone.