Mother Hunger

What I never received as a daughter, and what I’m learning to give as a mother

There are wounds we grow up knowing, and then there are wounds we only begin to understand once we become mothers ourselves. For me, something awakened quietly after I had my son. Nothing earth-shattering, but an ache, grief or sadness that rose to the surface while rocking my baby to sleep or watching him reach for me with complete instinctive trust.

I didn’t have language for that feeling until I learned about Mother Hunger, a term by Kelly McDaniel. And suddenly, so much of my emotional landscape started to make sense.

Photo by Louis Galvez on Unsplash

Mother Hunger describes what happens when a daughter grows up without one or more of the three core developmental needs that only a mother can provide:
nurturance, protection, and guidance.

When these needs are unmet or inconsistent, a child grows up with an inner ache. A longing she can’t fully articulate, but one that shapes her sense of self and the way she relates to others. And that ache finds a voice again when she becomes a mother.

Nurturance

This part hit me deeply. Not because I had no care at all, but because the care I needed emotionally never arrived.

When I was upset, I was told I was the problem.
Nobody hugged me.
Nobody asked, “Are you okay?”
Nobody sensed my mood or offered comfort or softness.
I was never helped to calm down or regulate myself.
I was never made to feel special, seen, or cherished.

So now, when my son melts into my arms or looks for me with pure trust, something tender opens inside me. It’s a beautiful feeling, but it brings a subtle ache too. A reminder of what I didn’t get, and what I am now learning to give.

Protection

This one has always lived like an injury underneath my skin.

I was not protected from adult anger or from unsafe experiences that no child should endure. And when I did react, I was labelled as the problem. I grew up learning how to stay small, stay silent, stay out of the way. I learned to adapt to other people’s worlds, rather than having anyone adjust theirs for me.

Now, as a mother, I feel myself constantly scanning the environment. Watching closely. Anticipating danger. Staying vigilant. It can be exhausting, but it comes from a place of deep love and a deep wound.

I am determined to give my child the safety I never had.

Guidance

Guidance was almost entirely missing in my childhood. My parents never talked to me about:

• puberty
• periods
• sex
• body boundaries
• emotional regulation
• self-esteem
• or even basic confidence

I was, however, constantly critiqued and compared. My mother was emotionally withdrawn. My father was reactive. Neither of them had the softness I came into this world with.

So now, when I guide my son… when I teach him how to name emotions, express needs, or understand his body, I’m aware that I am teaching him things I never learned myself. I am learning these things as I give them.

It is humbling. And healing. And sometimes painful.

How It Shows Up in Motherhood

These wounds don’t make dramatic appearances, they show up in small, everyday moments:

When my son cries, and I feel something tight inside my chest.
When I get overwhelmed by his needs, because mine were ignored for so long.
When I am overly careful, overly alert, overly loving, because I know the cost of not having those things.
When I watch him sleep, and, feel both an ache and a softening.

Motherhood is not just about raising my son.
It is about raising parts of myself too.

The Intergenerational Layer

Understanding that my mother also carried her own mother wound has softened something inside me. She did not fail me intentionally. She simply didn’t have the emotional tools, the support, or the nourishment that she needed herself.

I now see her with more compassion. For her limitations, her exhaustion, her unspoken grief. And a small part of me hopes that one day, when I have capacity, I can support her in healing too. Not out of duty, but out of love.

I know it’s not my burden to carry, and I will cross that bridge carefully. But the desire is there.

Where I Am Now

I’m not trying to become a perfect mother. I’m trying to become a present one. To my son and my inner daughter.

Every day, I give myself small doses of what I never received:

• nourishment through warm, comforting food
• time to write and express myself
• rest without guilt
• positive self-talk
• small rituals of care
• affection and gentleness
• permission to dream
• permission to be
• permission to live the way I want

I am learning, slowly, to mother my son with softness while learning how to offer that softness to myself too.