Being raised by a wounded mother is a slow unraveling, a starvation of the soul. It hollows you out in places you don’t even recognize until much later, when you're grown and aching for something you can’t name. I do not know what it means to have been nurtured by someone who was whole, who was healing, who had the capacity to pour into me without resentment or depletion. That was not my reality.

Read More