I thought this would be particularly comforting to my friends who live with this pain. These are not my words, but I felt they were worthy to share.
Dear You,
If no one has told you this today, let me be the first - what you're carrying is heavy.
And you shouldn't have to carry it alone. There's a particular kind of ache that comes from loving someone who doesn't seem to love you back.
The one you packed lunches for, worried over, and prayed for more times than you can count.
You loved them with your whole heart.
Still do.
But now they barely call.
Maybe they don't call at all.
Or when they do, it feels cold.
Distant.
Like you're strangers asking too many questions.
And it hurts more than you can put into words.
You wonder what you did wrong.
What you missed.
You replay moments from the past like old movies, hoping to find the scene where everything shifted.
You whisper apologies in your mind for things you didn't mean to say, or things you never got the chance to say at all.
You ask yourself, "was I too strict?"
"Was I too soft?" "Did I fail them somehow?"
You are not alone in asking these questions.
Many mothers carry them quietly, buried deep behind a polite smile or a brave face.
They look fine on the outside.
But inside, there's a wound that hasn't healed.
Because when your own child pulls away - or worse, shuts the door entirely - it feels like a piece of your soul is missing.
People don't talk about this kind of pain enough.
They talk about parenting toddlers, teenagers, even young adults.
But they don't often talk about the grief of parenting someone who no longer wants to be parented - who no longer wants you.
So you sit with the silence.
You smile when others talk about their family dinners or holiday visits.
You nod when they show off pictures from birthday parties you weren't invited to.
And all the while, your heart is quietly breaking.
I want you to know something.
This isn't your fault. Not entirely. Maybe not at all.
Parenting is not a perfect science.
It's messy and complicated and shaped by things outside your control.
Your child grew up with their own thoughts, their own experiences, their own interpretations of the world.
And sometimes, those interpretations don't match your memories.
Sometimes, their pain comes from a place you couldn't see.
Or from somewhere that has nothing to do with you at all.
That doesn't mean you didn't love them enough.
It doesn't mean you were a bad mother.
It means they're human.
And SO ARE YOU.
Maybe your relationshp became tangled somewhere along the way.
Too many words spoken in anger.
too many years of misunderstanding.
Or maybe, for reasons you'll never fully understand, they just chose to walk away.
And you were left behind with all your love and nowhere to put it.
It's okay to grieve that.
It's okay to feel the loss.
This isn't just disappointment - it's a heartbreak with no clear ending.
Because they're still out there.
Living their life.
And you are still here, wondering how someone you raised could forget how much you cared.
I know the world tells you to move on.
To accept it.
To keep your chin up.
But you don't have to pretend this doesn't hurt.
You don't have to hide the way you still check your phone, hoping today will be the day they text.
Or the way your eyes sting when you see a family that looks like what you always dreamed of.
You are allowed to feel everything you feel.
The sadness.
The confusion.
Even the anger. Especially the anger.
You gave so much of yourself. You offered your best, even when you were tired, even when you had nothing to left to give.
And somehow that wasn't enough fo them to stay close.
That's a kind of rejection no one prepares you for.
But please, don't let their silence rewrite the truth of who you are.
You are not unlovable.
You are not a failure.
You are not worthless.
You are a mother who loved deeply.
Who STILL does. And that love?
It doesn't disappear just because it wasn't returned.
Love isn't measured by the heart that gives it.
And your heart has always been full.
You might be asking yourself, "What do I do now?"
How far do you go on loving someone who's pulled so far away?
The answer is - gently.
You love yourself first.
You honor what you've been through.
You remind yourself that your life isn't over just because a relationship(s) is(are)broken.
There are still moments ahead for you.
Moments of laughter, joy, even peace.
Even if they don't come from your child.
You can still be loved. You can still find a connection.
It may come from friends, neighbors, nieces, or other mothers who know your pain.
It may come from people who see you, really see you, for all that you are.
And if that love shows up in a different shape than you expected, that's okay.
It's still real. It's still yours.
And maybe, one day, your child will find their way back.
Maybe they won't.
But either way, you don't have to keep your heart locked away.
You don't have to stop being the kind of person who loves deeply.
In fact, the world needs more people like you.
People who love even when it hurts.
People who keep showing up, even when no one claps for them.
People who still have hope, even when it flickers.
If today is hard, let it be hard.
If tears come, let them fall.
You've held it together for long enough.
And maybe, it's time to stop pretending you're fine when you're not.
You don't have to be strong every second.
You don't have to be the one who always understands.
You can be the one who is hurting.
The one who is healing.
The one who is still learning how to carry love that has nowhere to land.
There is something deeply beautiful about that kind of heart.
A heart that loves anyway.
That forgives without forgetting.
That hopes without demanding.
That grieves without giving up.
And that heart? That's yours.
Don't let anyone, not even your child, convince you it's not enough.
You ARE enough. Even in your pain. Even in your waiting.
Even in your wondering.
You are not invisible.
You are not forgotten.
And you are not alone.
There are so many women like you - quietly hurting, quietly loving, quietly hoping.
So if you ever feel like you're the only one carrying this kind of grief, remember this letter.
Remember that someone out there sees you. Someone understands the ache you don't always talk about.
And someone believes, without a doubt, that your love still matters.
YOU still matter.
Always.
(author unknown)
