My mother lived with me, repeatedly in the little home I built, a few months after my first husband died. I had been a widow for only a few months, and my mother began staying with me anytime, my father hurt her, yelled at her or became narcissistically abusive. My mother nicknamed me, “my rock”. She depended on me. I championed her. I parented her. I took care of her. I made her feel safe. 13 years after she called me her rock, she stopped talking to me and chose my father o

You can't tell a child that their abusive parent loves them and then expect them to recognize abuse as unacceptable later. You conditioned them to accept harm as love and if they aren’t aware enough to stop that confusion, it will follow them into every relationship. Stop lying to children about abusive parents loving them and doing the best they can. You’re doing them a lifelong disservice by siding with the abusive adult as the child fights to be a loving little human with

Every single day. With everything I had. Ask me how I did as a mother and the answer is this, I showed up and it was heartfelt. Every single bit of mothering was full of my love and care for my children. There was never a day I stopped trying, even on the days I looked completely fine, but I was struggling on the inside. I am sorry for the days my energy ran out before theirs did. I’m sorry my energy is depleted, as a grandparent on the days I’m still navigating what hurts. I