The Ache to Be Mothered

A young girl’s journey through invisible wounds, unspoken pain, and the slow, quiet healing of learning to mother herself

There was once a soul who decided, “I want to learn how to nurture.”
And she was asked, “To truly learn what it means to nurture, you may have to experience the absence of it first. Are you sure?”
The soul said yes.

So she was sent to a life where nurturing would not come easily.

She was born to a mother already exhausted by the demands of a toddler, and to a father often absent, physically and emotionally. The news of her conception had come as a surprise. A mistake, even. Abortion was considered, but it was a Sunday in India. The clinics were closed. And so, she stayed.

From the womb itself, the feeling of being unwanted settled in her cells. She was born into a household that was already overwhelmed. Her mother carried deep trauma of her own from a childhood of neglect. Her father was trying, in his own flawed way, to be present. But no one had the emotional bandwidth to truly see her, to hold her carefully, or to make her feel protected.

She was a bright-eyed baby, full of light and love. But very early on, she began to shrink. She felt like a burden. Like someone who had to earn her place. She was cared for, but not understood. Looked after, but not truly attuned to. Protected, but not enough.

And in the hands of those around her, boundaries were crossed. Her small body learned the cost of being visible. Her light dimmed.

She stopped speaking much. Petrified of strangers. She preferred the corners of rooms, the quiet of her inner world. People asked what was wrong with her. They took her to a speech specialist. But no one asked how she was feeling. Not once did anyone say, “I’ve got you.”

She grew up surrounded by many but feeling deeply alone, and preferred to stay invisible. She dimmed her light and became a shell of the bright and beautiful personality she was born with, just to stay safe.

Despite everything in her childhood, the teenage years were the hardest. The line between people pleasing and being manipulated got blurry fast. She did not know how to hold her power. She did not even know she had any. What she wanted was love and protection. What she got was attention, and it came with a cost.

She had a wide-eyed innocence with which she saw the world, and it made her easy to be taken advantage of. Boys, friends, and even acquaintances crossed her emotional boundaries. But she did not know how to protect herself. She did not even know she was supposed to.

Before long, the labels arrived. Slut. Promiscuous. Misguided.

But inside, she was just a girl aching to be loved. She did not know how to explain what she felt. She was ashamed. And she internalized all of it. And kept searching for someone who would see her for who she was… beyond the labels.

That person never came.

And still, she moved forward.

Her one aim during those years was to get away. To build her own life. To be free. She used her career as a lifeline. She wanted safety, identity, and a new beginning. And she got all of it. She found external success, ticked every box, and built a life on paper that looked ideal.

But the ache remained.

She still longed for love. For belonging. For someone to nurture her. She looked for it everywhere. Friends came and went. Relationships came and went. Nothing lasted. And she never thought to look inward.

Until motherhood.

Becoming a mother cracked her open. Suddenly, the urgency to heal was real. She saw how much children internalize, and it clicked.

She knew she had to stop the cycle. She did not want her generational pain to pass through her son.

In the process, she began learning how to fill her own cup. To love herself. To slow down. To protect her peace. To show up for herself with the same tenderness she tried to give to others.

She became a better partner. She began to nurture her marriage. But first, she learned to nurture herself.

She started to receive love from her little family. Real, honest love, without conditions. She learned to trust. To set boundaries. To take up space. It is still a work in progress, but for the first time, she no longer feels invisible.

And somewhere, her soul smiles. Because this is the journey she chose.

And if at the end of this life, she can say—
“I learned how to nurture myself. I learned how to be nurtured.”
Then her soul will be at peace.

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This piece came out of a prompt from the Align Your Story course by Nadia Colburn.

I began with five minutes of anulom vilom, a gentle breathwork practice to center myself. And then I sat with this question:
“Where does your writing come from?”

Is it anger, grief, longing, observation, shame, hope?
For me, the answer was buried so deep it only surfaced after breath and silence.

If this essay resonated with you, I encourage you to try the same.

Your Turn

Find a quiet space.
Breathe.
Gently begin anulom vilom if you know it. If you don’t, here’s a YouTube video with gentle instructions.
Let your body soften.
And then ask yourself:

Where does my writing come from?
Or, if you’re not a writer:
What emotion lives at the root of my voice?

Let your words spill, without judgment.
Your story may be waiting just beneath the surface.