Dear Mama

1 Insight. 1 Reflection. 1 Shift.

How do you grieve someone who’s still alive? This is the letter I’ve never been able to give my mama, until now.

1 Insight

I told myself this week’s issue would be lighter. That the delay in sitting down to write was because life’s been busy.

But the truth? The delay is me. My unwillingness to keep walking through the mother wound I’ve carried for decades.

On Tuesday morning, I woke up with my mama on my mind. It was her birthday. And just like that, grief I thought I had buried broke the surface. She’s still here in the physical, but schizophrenia has taken away the woman who raised me.

Most days, I don’t think about her. Other days, memory cracks open, and I’m left wanting a conversation we’ll never have.

So, this week’s issue is my release, what I’d say to her if she could really hear me.

Maybe as you read, you’ll think of your own version of a wound like this, the person you still long to be understood by…

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1 Reflection

Dear Mama,

I think most about the late 80s, the sweet spot. The years after your divorce from my Dad, but before your second marriage. Before religion swallowed our time.

Just me and you. The sun warming the hood of your Chevy Malibu. The smell of your Lady Stetson perfume filling the car as you rolled the windows down. Your arm stretched across my chest when you hit the brakes, your own version of a seatbelt. My legs sticking to the hot vinyl seat as I talked your ear off about whatever popped into my four-year-old brain.

Trips to Newton Plaza theater with a tub of buttery popcorn between us, watching All Dogs Go to Heaven and Ghostbusters 2. I remember the way your laugh would sneak out, low and quiet, like it was just for me.

Back then, you were mine.

When you remarried, I tried to adjust. Tried calling him “Dad” until the word felt like a mouthful of dry bread. So, I stopped. It didn’t feel right, for either of us. I looked to you to step in when our rocky start turned sharp, but most of the time, all I got was, “He’s the adult. Listen to what he says.”

We always did best when it was just us, when you didn’t have to perform for anyone. But when the church became your whole world, I couldn’t compete. I tried to earn your attention with good grades, and neat handwriting. Then sports, sweaty palms gripping batons in relay races, cheerleading uniforms that smelled faintly of the school gym.

Still, nothing was enough.

I ran the uphill battle trying to do what I could to earn your love, attention, and approval, until one day, that desire vanished the moment I saw all our belongings strewn across the front lawn. The air heavy with the scent of cut grass and something else, finality. My shame laid bare for the neighbors to see.

I understand now. I was a Daddy’s girl who looked and acted too much like him, a reminder of what went wrong. Your pride wouldn’t let me live with him, even if it might have been better. So, I code-switched every other weekend: saint on the first and third, sinner on the second and fourth.

I’m sorry, Mama.

I’m sorry you grew up as the middle child of eight, starved for the attention you deserved.
I’m sorry you lost your first baby to cancer, and that loss shaped my very existence in a way you sometimes voiced too plainly.
I’m sorry you drowned in religion instead of healing your wounds.
I’m sorry we never built the kind of relationship that would have kept you close to your grandkids.

But I’m also thankful.

I’m thankful your projections shaped me into a recovering people-pleaser who now knows her own worth.
I’m thankful for the brutal honesty that I wouldn’t have been born if my brother hadn’t died, it taught me how deeply children need to feel wanted.
I’m thankful for your story, your struggles, and your faith journey, because without them, I might never have found my passion for mental health.

So, thank you, Mama. For all of it.

Love always,
Kris

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1 Shift

Healing isn’t a straight line, it’s a tide. It comes in, it goes out. Some days, you think you’re fine. Other days, a birthday, a smell, or a song pulls you under.

If you’re carrying a wound that still aches, even after years, it doesn’t mean you haven’t healed “enough.” It means you’re human.

The shift is this: stop expecting yourself to be “done” with healing. Start honoring every wave as part of it. Allow your healing to unfold naturally, without the rush, without control.