Mothering Without a Mother
There are some parts of my story I don’t talk about often — not because I’m hiding them, but because they live deep inside me, in a place words don’t always reach.
But if I’m writing honestly…
If I’m trying to help other people feel less alone…
Then this part of my story matters.
It shaped me.
It softened me.
It hardened me.
It became the root of the way I mother — and the way I heal.
✨ I Lost My Mom at 9
Nine years old.
A baby, really.
Still needing braids and bedtime kisses and someone to tell me everything was going to be okay.
Instead, I learned what grief felt like before I even learned what boundaries were.
I learned silence.
I learned confusion.
I learned that life can flip upside down without warning.
My mom was gone.
And suddenly nothing felt safe anymore.
✨ I Lost My Dad Almost Exactly One Year Later
Just when the world started making the tiniest bit of sense again…
It happened all over.
Ten years old.
Two parents gone.
No roadmap.
No soft place to land.
Just another loss, another shockwave, another piece of childhood taken away too soon.
People assume kids don’t understand grief.
But they do — deeply.
They just don’t have the words for it.
So the pain sits inside the cracks, waiting to grow with you.
✨ Being Raised by My Three Older Sisters
After losing both parents, my three older sisters stepped in.
They did what they could, how they could, with what they had.
But here’s the truth:
It wasn’t easy.
And it wasn’t simple.
And it definitely wasn’t the warm, made-for-TV version of siblings rallying together.
We had issues.
Distance.
Tension.
Unspoken hurt.
Unmet needs on all sides.
Love buried under survival.
We didn’t always get along.
We still don’t always get along.
And as an adult, I can see now that all of us were grieving — but none of us knew how to do it.
We were kids raising a kid.
Kids trying to be strong for each other while falling apart at the same time.
There was love, yes.
But there was also misunderstanding, resentment, and pain that had no place to go.
And those things don’t just disappear when you grow up.me no
They follow you.
They shape you.
They become part of your mothering story.
✨ Mothering Without a Mother
This is the part I don’t talk about enough:
Mothering without a mother feels like walking through a forest without a trail.
Every step is guesswork.
Every decision feels heavier.
Every mistake scares you, because there’s no one to call for advice, reassurance, or comfort.
When my kids argue, pout, or slam doors, I parent through instinct — not memory.
Because I don’t have many memories of being mothered.
When I’m overwhelmed, I don’t have a mom to call and say,
“Please come get these kids for an hour.”
When I’m hurting, I don’t have a mom to say,
“You’re doing a great job. I’m proud of you.”
When I’m scared, I don’t have a mom to remind me that I’ve survived worse.
It’s lonely sometimes.
Even in a full house.
Even surrounded by love.
Because there’s a kind of hole that never really closes — it just changes shape.
✨ The Strength in the Hurt
But here’s the part I’m proud of:
I try to mother softly because I know what hard feels like.
I listen because I know what silence felt like.
I show up because I know what it feels like when someone doesn’t.
I love loudly because my childhood didn’t always sound that way.
I protect fiercely because I know what losing safety feels like.
And every day, I’m breaking generational patterns without even realizing it.
My kids will never know what it felt like to grow up without a parent.
They’ll never know that level of loneliness.
They’ll never have to wonder if they’re loved.
And that alone makes every hard moment worth it.
✨ To Anyone Parenting Without Parents
If you’re mothering without a mom, fathering without a dad, or figuring life out without the people who were supposed to guide you — I see you.
You’re carrying grief and responsibility at the same time.
You’re healing and parenting at the same time.
You’re doing the job of two hearts with one.
And you’re doing better than you think.
✨ Final Thought
I didn’t get the mom I needed.
I didn’t get the dad I needed.
I didn’t get the childhood I needed.
But my kids?
They will get everything I needed — and more.
Because every wound I carry…
I turn into warmth for them.
Every hurt I lived through…
I turn into strength for them.
Every loss I survived…
I turn into love for them.
This is mothering without a mother.
Painful.
Powerful.
Transformative.
Cosmic.
And I’m proud of who I’m becoming.
