For years, Mother’s Day felt like a hollow celebration—something I endured, not embraced.

The cards, the brunches, the social media posts dripping with maternal gratitude—they only reminded me of what I didn’t have.

My mother was physically present but emotionally distant, often caught in the grips of her own pain. I didn’t grow up with consistent mothering. I grew up with a question: What’s wrong with me that my own mom can’t show up for me?

That question burrowed deep. It planted the roots of self-hatred, of perfectionism, of a body image so distorted that I couldn’t see myself clearly. I didn’t just struggle with food or weight. I struggled with worth. I used to believe that if I could just be good enough—smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough—then maybe I’d finally earn love. Maybe I’d finally be mothered.

I now know that what I needed wasn’t to be better. What I needed was to be held.

Healing didn’t come all at once. It came in whispers. In parts. Through a modality called Internal Family Systems (IFS), I began to connect with the wounded parts of me—especially the little girl who had long ago internalized that she was unlovable. Through IFS, I learned to step into a new role in my own life: not the daughter, not the victim, not the performer—but the mother.

I began reparenting myself, talking to myself the way I’d always wished my mom would. When I was sad, I stopped shaming myself and started soothing. When I overate, I stopped punishing and started listening. I replaced harsh internal criticism with gentle curiosity. I practiced showing up for myself in small ways every day.

I also stopped expecting one woman—my mother—to give me everything I needed. I began seeking out wise, loving women to help fill in the maternal gaps: mentors, therapists, soulful friends who knew how to nurture. Their presence reminded me that mothering isn’t always biological. Sometimes, it’s communal.

As I showed up for myself again and again, something radical began to shift. The desperate attempts to control my food softened. I stopped treating my body like a project and started treating it like a home. I learned to feed myself with care, to rest without guilt, to speak to myself with compassion. My relationship with food and my body transformed because I no longer hated myself. And I no longer hated myself because I had stopped abandoning the parts of me that needed love.

This Mother’s Day, I can sit with my mom and honor what was good without feeling the old ache of what wasn’t. I can celebrate the mom I have become—one who is emotionally present, loving, attuned. Most importantly, I can celebrate the liberation that came from becoming my own mother.

Healing my mother wound didn’t just change my relationship with my mother. It changed everything. It gave me back myself.

And now, every day—not just on Mother’s Day—I mother the girl I once was, and the woman I continue to become.

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