Sam Sunrayelle on When Mother’s Day Doesn’t Feel Like Roses and Ribbons

Sometimes, Mother's Day doesn't come wrapped in pink ribbons and picture-perfect  memories. Sometimes, it arrives like a mirror, reminding you of the cracks that were always  there… hidden behind laughter, tradition, and the silence of survival. 

There was a time our relationship was the most caring and beautiful. She was my best friend, and I was hers. She shared every little thing with me... every thought, every idea, every dream, every  plan and..... every pain. 

The kind of pain a child shouldn’t have known. 

The kind of hurt that shouldn’t be revealed to someone so young. But I listened. I carried all the weight in my tiny little heart, thinking that’s what love  looks like. I loved her more than anyone. And she loved me more than anything. Or so I thought....  

But after losing my father… something shifted. In the quiet that followed his passing, truths I had buried began to whisper louder. The love was real. But so was the pain. 

So was the control. The emotional weight. 

The roles that blurred, until I, still grieving, found myself parenting my own mother. And then it hit me: I had always played that role. 

Protecting her. Nurturing her. Worrying about her!  She didn’t know she was passing down unhealed wounds. And I didn’t know I was carrying them all.  

That’s what generational trauma looks like: Love laced with hurt. Nurture wrapped in neglect. A mother who gave all she had, without realizing it wasn’t always what "I" needed. Because she never received what she needed either. 

But healing made me see it all. 

And healing also asked me to let go… Let go of needing to fix her.  

Let go of waiting for apologies. 

Let go of clinging to what was, or what I wished it could’ve been.  Sometimes, healing means letting go of people we still love.

Sometimes, it means grieving the relationship we dreamed of, while honoring the  truth of what it really was. And sometimes… it means choosing peace over closeness.  

To the daughters breaking cycles in silence, to the mothers doing their best while still hurting inside: 

I see you. I love you. I forgive us both.  

May we all mother our inner child at last.