There’s a kind of ache only a mother knows — the ache of hindsight at looking back and realising that while your arms held them tight, your heart was locked behind walls even you couldn’t name at the time.

I see it now… How depression dulled my joy, how perfectionism became the mask I wore to feel worthy, and how, in all my trying to be enough, I became emotionally unavailable when they needed me most.

My eldest once told me they were afraid of me when I got angry and oh, how that pierced me, not because it wasn’t true, but because it was. I didn't rage often. I swallowed it until the pressure broke me… and then it broke them too.

That wasn’t the mother I longed to be.

If I wasn’t emotionally available, it wasn’t because I didn’t love them — it was because I was surviving. I was doing the best I could in my brokenness, but now, I choose connection over perfection, love over fear.

This is not the end — this is where healing begins, not just for me… but for us.

Because I didn’t want to raise children who flinch when they failed, I wanted to raise children who call me in their failure. Who know I will sit beside them in their mess, not as judge, but as mother, not with shame, but with fierce, unwavering, unconditional love.

They don’t need to earn it. They never did and I pray they’ll know it now… that even in my broken places, I would choose them every time.

And now, in Christ, I am learning to choose presence over performance.

💖 What I'm describing here is something so many of us as mothers carry — a deep ache over the things we didn’t know then, the struggles we tried to hide, and the ways our pain unintentionally bled into the lives of our children.

Let me say this clearly: acknowledging where you feel you failed is not failure — it’s healing. Healing through imperfection and it’s legacy-shifting. 🌱💫

That your child can speak those words to you — even if they sting — is evidence that somewhere, safety has been planted. That honesty has space. That you’re choosing truth over pretending and that is brave and holy work.

Here’s something gentle to hold:

💔 If you weren’t emotionally available, it’s not because you didn’t love them — it’s because you were surviving. It’s hard to pour from a well that was never filled. And perfection — especially in the hands of a hurting soul — often becomes a shield. A way to cope. A way to prove to yourself and others: “Maybe if I do everything right, no one will see how broken I feel inside.”

But love doesn’t need to be perfect to be powerful.

Would you allow this to be a turning page in your story, not the final chapter?🤔

You are rewriting history already by seeing it clearly, repenting sincerely, and choosing connection now over performance then. That’s what true healing looks like.

🌿 Reflection Prompt

• What would I want my child to know about my anger and my absence? 🤔

• If I could speak to the younger version of myself — the mother who was doing her best in pain — what would I say? 🤔

• What does love look like now, even if it's messy? 🤔

🙏 Closing Prayer

Abba Father, healer of generations, I lay this heartache before You — the ache of a mother who loved fiercely but fell short. I bring the wounds I caused in my brokenness and the ones I’ve carried since my own childhood. Lord, cover every moment in Your mercy. Redeem the years eaten by locusts. Teach me how to rebuild, how to ask for forgiveness, how to be a safe place now. May my children know, even in our mess, that love has always been the thread. Let Your perfect love cover where mine has failed. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.