My mother died today.
Not literally.
But something in my emotional body crossed a line it can’t uncross.
What died was the illusion that my definition of mother and her definition of mother would ever align.
I held that hope for a long time. Longer than I want to admit. Hope has a way of disguising itself as patience, as compassion, as “maybe one day she’ll see me.” But hope, when it asks you to abandon yourself, becomes a slow erosion of the soul.
Today, one of those definitions had to die.
And it wasn’t mine.
Because my definition of mother is something I want to live inside of. It’s something I want to pass down. It’s something I want my children to feel in their nervous systems long after my voice is gone. It’s not just an idea-it’s a lineage choice.
So I let go.
Not in anger. Not in blame. But in clarity.
Letting go doesn’t mean she never showed up. That’s the part that makes this grief complicated and honest. There were moments of alignment. Moments of care. Moments that mattered. I honor those. I keep them. They’re real, and they’re mine to carry forward.
But I am no longer willing to dilute my truth to preserve a fantasy version of motherhood that requires me to misunderstand myself.
Today, I grieve the mother I needed and never had.
And I grieve the mother who is still alive but cannot meet me where I stand.
There is a particular kind of grief that comes from realizing someone is both here and not here at the same time. It doesn’t come with casseroles or condolences. It comes quietly. It comes when you finally stop asking for something that has already been answered by years of silence, misalignment, or conditional love.
This death wasn’t about rejection.
It was about preservation.
By letting this version of my mother die, I get to preserve my definition of mother, the one rooted in emotional safety, attunement, repair, presence, and unconditional belonging. The one that says love doesn’t require you to disappear to be acceptable.
That definition doesn’t end with me.
It becomes generational.
It becomes a boundary and a blessing.
It becomes a promise to my children and to myself that the cycle stops here, not with bitterness, but with consciousness.
Today, I honor the mother I never had.
I honor the grief of needing something that never fully arrived.
And I honor the woman I’ve become because I refused to let that absence harden me or make me smaller.
Something died today.
And something else was protected.
That feels like both an ending and a beginning.
And for the first time, I trust that both are sacred.
Stay Sunny ☀️✌🏽🫶🏽