"You're my mom!"
or Psychic Inheritance or New Religions
“You’re my mom!”
What the hell does she mean?
My trans-IDed teen daughter said this to me during more than one of our intense conversations during a period of time where my confidence as a mother had hit rock bottom. As I write this sentence, it now seems obvious what she meant, even if she didn’t know herself.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that motherhood is the truest of individuation journeys. If we’re willing to accept the challenge, our children will reflect back to us the work we still need to do to heal ourselves and be whole.
I’m still learning and healing. I watch my own mother learning and healing as she nears the end of her 8th decade. I am deeply grateful for her example of grace in the most painful of times, of her persisting childlike wonder at this stunning world we inhabit, for the awe her remaining ten children hold her in, how her large progeny all seem to feel seen and loved by her. I am grateful for the “psychic inheritance” (term learned from the This Jungian Life podcast) I received from my mother and strive to be as graceful, as self-accepting, as loving as she is. As human as she is.
I also have to recognize that in her humanity are her flaws. Does the fact that there are so many of us (progeny) make her less accessible? By less accessible, I meant Godlike, not literally less accessible. Yet, the latter is also relevant and bears considering. She always said love multiplies. “The more people you have to love, the more love you have to give.” I do know her love is always there, and when I reach out, she enfolds me in her love. I also know I have some attachment issues, but I don’t (think) I hold this against her. I’ve seen ACE (Adverse Childhood Events) charts that list coming from a family of five or more children as a contributor to cumulative childhood trauma. I choose to see it differently. Maybe more on this another day, but a just a tad bit more for now:
My mother embraced a non-interference approach to parenting her adult children. Those of us that managed to navigate life with some competence really got the hands-off treatment since we had siblings that demanded more of her attention. No one begrudged Mom for moving in with our baby sister to help with her four small children as my brother-in-law lost his life to cancer, widowing my sister at the young age of 34. Certainly there were no hard feelings when, almost immediately following the funeral, she returned to the bedside of my 46 yo paraplegic brother to love and support him through his final year of a life ravaged and cut short by MS. We’d already lost my dad and my one older sister within the previous decade to health complications of addiction. Throughout this period of tragic loss, my mother remained a pillar of strength and grace–and faith. I saw how her religious faith played such a prominent role in her resilience, and I yearned for such a sturdy support in my own life.
I still do. But I think I’m getting closer to having it. They say “spirituality” seems to be necessary to living a satisfying and meaningful life. What does this mean and what does it look like for someone like me? This question has haunted me for some time–since recognizing myself as one who is unable to embrace a belief system that incorporates an incomprehensible being that I am to answer to. I’ve found a different “religion” or rather, I’ve found a praxis (which is what religion really provides, right?) that demands only that I live in alignment with my own values (which include a reverence for nature and our place within it,) to the best of my ability. One that offers lots of forgiveness and where there will always be room for growth. I know this is what my mom gets from her faith, but hers didn’t work for me. And it appears, at least for now, that mine doesn’t work for my daughter.
But back to her repeated and loaded exclamation, “You’re my mom!”
The heart wrenching, desperate tone! I couldn’t tell what she wanted from me, but the statement dripped with the same contempt I was feeling for myself. After a few times of hearing this from her, I finally asked, “What does that mean? What do you need from me? What do you think a mom is?”
She didn’t have a response, but I now see this question was meant to call me back into position. I realized I should be able to explain what a mom is. Here’s what I came up with then–it was 2019, the year I discovered my daughter had embraced a new religion. You know the one I mean.