Posted on August 27th, 2026

When I was eleven years old, before Pop passed away, I never questioned whether he loved me or whether I loved him. After he was gone, I became angry with him for leaving me alone in a reality I did not feel prepared to face. I had not asked to be here. The words, “Who will love me now?” rang loudly in my head.

Because I could not recognize Mom’s kind of love, I spent years angry at her for not loving me in the way I needed to be loved: openly, warmly, and for who I was. Only later did I understand that she loved me in the only way she knew how. How could I understand her priorities and her way of loving without first understanding the life that had shaped her?

Mom was seventeen when she eloped, the eleventh of twelve brothers and sisters. Like anyone her age, she was still discovering and forming her own values, most of them learned at home and still incomplete. In her family, raising children meant insisting that they complete higher education and achieve a prestigious profession. Success was treated as proof that love and respect had been exchanged: children honored their parents by following their guidance, and parents expressed love by giving that guidance. That left little room for freedom of choice. Her strictly Orthodox father’s beliefs did not encourage physical contact between genders, and Mom was not a hugging person. Affection was not part of her vocabulary. Priorities were set.

Children require love they can understand, process, and feel. I was angry that Mom did not give me the verbal and physical warmth, love, and acceptance I longed for, but I did not realize that she could not become someone she was not. She was flawed, as we all are, and imperfect, but she loved me. Her limitations were guided by good intent. She was doing her best.

Mom was a self-disciplined woman who followed an efficient routine without deviation. She expected her children to approach every task with the same seriousness and effort. She set the example by living the words she preached. Without realizing it, we absorbed her model almost by osmosis until it became part of the way we understood responsibility, perseverance, and love. I internalized her inner strength and discipline. In hindsight, I see this. I love her because of it. She taught me how to survive, perhaps the most important trait of all. 

I inherited Mom’s attributes in ways I did not always recognize. They live in my determination, my standards, and the quiet persistence that has carried me through hardship. Her love may not have arrived in the form I wished for, but it left a lasting imprint. Today, I honor her not only for what she gave me, but also for the strength she planted in me. She is always with me.

During two years of twice-weekly psychiatric therapy, I confronted my pain, expectations, anger, and need for love and acceptance. I finally understood that my mother could not give me what she did not know how to give. The death of her husband, my Pop, was a pain we both shared. Recognizing our shared grief and mutual fragility allowed empathy to replace the buried anger I had carried toward her. Judgment gave way to warmth and acceptance. I now wanted to comfort her and ease her pain. I couldn’t forgive the pain I had endured but I could reconcile the reason why it occurred, thus taking responsibility for my choices instead of blaming her for what ailed my heart.   In time, we became friends, and I became a better person for it. Pop died during my eleventh year and so most parental interaction with me came from Mom, but this reading is not gender specific. 

Can seeing a parent’s past with understanding and compassion open the door to forgiveness, healing, and reconciliation?

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