The Evolution of Understanding: How Time & Perspective Transformed My Relationship With My Mother

Hope Infusion "Mother's Day Edition" - May 11, 2025

On this Mother’s Day, as cards and flowers exchange hands and social media fills with tributes, I find myself reflecting on the complex tapestry of motherhood beyond greeting card sentiments. For some of us, our relationships with our mothers exist in the gray spaces, not easily categorized as simply good or bad, but rather as intricate landscapes of love, hurt, growth, and understanding.

My own relationship with my mother was fractious and complicated. There were storms and silences, wounds and wisdom. And I understand her far better in death than I ever did in life.

Today, rather than indulging in superficial platitudes or toxic positivity, I choose to honor what she gave me more than dwell on what was missing. This reflection is my tribute to the imperfect, human journey we shared.

---

About My Mother

As a young girl, I adored my mother.
As a teenager, I resented my mother.
As a young adult, I judged my mother.
As a woman of middle age, I understand my mother.

As a young girl, I didn't understand my mother's quick temper nor how her anger rapidly escalated from dormant to volcanic. I couldn't see the invisible weight she carried, the financial and other challenges that hung low over our household.

As a teenager, I couldn't comprehend the wall she erected between us. Physically present, but emotionally absent, isolated in a fortress of seeming aloofness.

As an introverted adult, I now understand how marital challenges, financial strain, and a high-stress career could cause her to retreat into solitude, a sanctuary I often seek for myself.

As a young adult, I didn't understand her mood swings. Loving in one moment, unleashing verbal toxicity in the next. I now recognize how unresolved trauma eventually surfaces, staining interactions with those we love most.

We all filter life through the lens of our experience.

I've  now lived long enough, read widely enough, been counseled enough to view my turbulent history with my mother through the soft lens of empathy rather than the harsh lens of judgment.

I've lived long enough to realize that some of the times she apologized for her venomous rants, when my inner judgment was "If you were truly sorry, you would stop doing it"—she truly was sorry.

I've lived long enough to know firsthand that our dark impulses and destructive habits aren't as easy to control as I once imagined, absent engaging in deep emotional healing and inner work.

I've lived long enough to appreciate the many intangible treasures I possess that she did not.

She was encumbered by a hyper legalistic version of faith that prioritized shame, and minimized grace, a toxic construct I understand well having broken free from it.

She lived when counseling and personal development were deemed "woo woo." I live when seeking professional guidance is embraced.

She believed other women were not to be trusted and had no close friends besides her sister. My female friendships are among my most treasured intangible possessions.

She was raised in the Jim Crow South with limited options for African Americans. I live when the pursuit of passion is encouraged, not merely survival.

I've developed an appreciation for what my mother taught me and released past expectations of the things I desired that were beyond her ability to impart.

She taught me to read at age 4.
She taught me to love words, education, and introspection.
She taught me to be inquisitive and relentless in seeking answers.

And at the end of life—despite a lifetime of defiantly insisting that she was right all of the damn time, she conceded that she could be wrong. One of the final things she said to me, looking up from the ICU bed, a frail shell of her former feisty self: "I'm sorry. I did the best I could."

And she did.
And I "get" that now, on a whole other level.

We inherit more than genetics from our mothers, we inherit patterns, traumas, and resilience. We inherit the opportunity to break cycles or perpetuate them.

My mother didn't have access to the tools and awareness I've been privileged to find. She couldn't give what she didn't have. Her harshness was born of her own wounds, her own history of navigating a world that offered limited paths for Black women.

The greatest gift she unknowingly gave me was the determination to find different ways, to seek healing, to embrace vulnerability; Things she couldn't model but which her absence taught me to value.

And now the cycle of motherhood moves forward.

I have three children, one son and two daughters, with with whom I likewise do my best. I carry forward her strengths while striving to leave behind the patterns that caused us both pain.

With each generation, we have the chance to evolve, to heal, not just ourselves but the lineage.The dance between mother and child continues, transformed by time, shaped by understanding, softened by forgiveness.

I hope my children will one day look back at the memory of me, see past my shortcomings, and view my actions through the lens of empathy that took me decades to develop.

I hope they too will ultimately understand that motherhood is not perfection but presence, not flawlessness but the faithful attempt to give what we can from where we stand, with the tools we have.

And perhaps that's the greatest inheritance of all: the grace to see our mothers, and ourselves, as works in progress: complex, contradictory, and completely human. 

---

Parting Thoughts

As Mother’s Day comes and goes, I’m reminded that healing doesn’t follow a calendar. Understanding our mothers—and ourselves as mothers—is a lifelong journey that unfolds in layers, revealing new insights with each season of life.

The gift of perspective allows us to see the fuller picture: that behind every mother’s failures and triumphs lies a person doing their best with what they have. Our mothers were women before they were mothers, carrying their own unresolved stories into parenthood.

Perhaps the most profound way to honor our mothers isn’t through perfected memories or hallmark moments, but through the conscious choice to carry forward their strengths while gently laying down the patterns that no longer serve us. In doing so, we transform not just our own lives, but the generations that follow.

Whether your relationship with your mother brings comfort or complexity, may you find peace in your own truth and growth in your understanding. The legacy of motherhood is written not just in what we receive, but in what we choose to become.

---

If these reflections on the complex journey of motherhood resonated with you, I invite you to share, forward, or repost it. I aim to develop a community of the hope-minded who value honest exploration over easy answers, a space where we can honor both the light and shadow of our most foundational relationships. Your story matters here!