I have a distinct memory from childhood of being in the car with my mom, headed to a family friend’s house, working up the courage and asking her a question I’d been wondering about. I had to have been somewhere between 8 and 10 years old. The conversation was very short. I remember being casual about it, but there was a feeling of great potency in the moment.
The memory has resurfaced many times through the years, leaving me puzzled every time. What was it about this brief exchange that was so important that both the moment and the memory are strangely supercharged?
This week it finally became clear. It took almost four decades to see this. It’s something so obvious that it now seems unfathomable that I didn’t already know the answer to my own question. As I type the words on the page I realize the truth is, I did know, I just couldn’t bear to know. Or perhaps more accurately, my relationship with my mother couldn’t bear to know.
The question I asked my mom that day in the car was essentially, “Is there something wrong with me?” I explained to her that as I went about my life I continually heard a voice in my head, narrating what I was doing, in the third person. As I went about my day, I frequently heard an ongoing description of what I was doing “She picked up her coat and put it on…She stepped out the door to walk to school…” etc.
As a child I read a lot. So at the time my best explanation for what was happening in my head was that this narrator’s voice describing my life was a result of how much time I spent reading. I don’t think that hypothesis was wrong. But I also don’t think I was wrong to sense that something was a little…off. That this phenomenon wasn’t universal; that maybe not all eight year olds had an inner narrator describing their every move. And that I should check in with a trusted adult about this.
I wish I could recall my mom’s response more clearly. What I do remember is that she told me there was nothing wrong with me. But the feeling in the air in our car didn’t quite correlate to the words she said. There was something in her face or voice that registered a flash of surprise or hint of concern. She was quick to tell me this was no big deal and though technically that was a reassurance, that’s not the feeling I got. What I picked up on was something that felt more like judgment—like maybe I was weird and overly self-absorbed to ask what I had asked.
The conversation was probably all of two minutes max and we never spoke about it again. I went on living my life with a narrator in my head, feeling like that was a little strange, and not knowing why.
Mother’s Day is in three days and I suspect this has something to do with why the memory has resurfaced. This Sunday I’ll be in Colorado celebrating my partner’s mom and for the first time in my life, I will not be interacting with my mom on Mothers Day. As deeply sad as that is, the distance between us has brought a lot of clarity. When I finally gave up trying to be connected to my mom something very surprising happened: I started to be able to see my own life.
The memory of that childhood conversation in the car is now effortlessly clear. At a young age I was so disassociated from my own body and experience that I went through life observing myself from somewhere above and outside myself, up and to the left, internally describing my life as if it was someone else’s. Because in many ways, it was.
Did something horrible happen to me as a child that caused this splitting off to happen, this disassociation? I don’t know. It’s possible. And my adult experience might make more sense if there were in fact some awful event. But there likely wasn’t. At least not anything that would look obviously traumatic if you were to rewatch the reel of my life. But here’s what I do know: I was my mother’s doll.
What it takes decades to realize is how deep and pervasive and fundamental this business of being secondary is. And how diligently and relentlessly one must fight to inhabit your own body and be the center of your own life…in a world that continually pressures you to center everyone else.
My mother’s nickname for me (which was adopted by my grandmother, aunt, and my mom’s best friend, as well), was Doll. Specifically, it was my first name-doll; my own name, with “doll” tacked onto it. It was said with fondness, like a term of endearment. Which I’m sure was how it was meant. But as I grew up that name felt less and less endearing and more and more uncomfortable until somewhere in my twenties I began to understand that in my family I didn’t get to be my own, individuated person. I was loved not for being me, but for being a doll: a pretty, feminine, quiet, obedient object that sits there, smiling, doing what you want her to do.
I’m certainly not alone in being conditioned to be doll-like and my mom is not a monster. Not by any means. The fact is we live in a patriarchal culture that treats girls and women as objects and I don’t know anyone who has escaped the effects of that. What it takes decades to realize is how deep and pervasive and fundamental this business of being secondary is. And how diligently and relentlessly one must fight to inhabit your own body and be the center of your own life…in a world that continually pressures you to center everyone else.
Recently, for me, this journey of inhabiting myself has become a breath-by-breath process. The more I heal and grow the more fully I inhabit my body and my life (yay!!)…AND the more the trauma, fear, and grief come rushing to the surface. In the last few weeks I’ve experienced huge opening and expansion followed by such intense contraction that I did not sleep for six days because the way my body tightened up in fear response was so painful I could barely breathe. It’s only when I slow down and meet myself, literally breath by breath, that the vise grips in my hips and diaphragm relax.
The journey of inner healing is so much more physical than many of us ever expect. The pain involved can be exhausting and I would not wish it on anyone. But I’m sharing my story here because I believe we are in fact all on this journey, to some degree. It’s simply the times we’re living in. It’s time to find our way home.
There are so many ways we get talked out of being who we are. We’re all trained to see ourselves and others as objects; a strong resume, a pretty face, a family role, a job position, a means to an end. So the journey home to ourselves, home to our bodies, and home to this planet that holds us is essential—and can be a bumpy ride.
Whoever you are and whatever your gender, you live in a world that is incredibly beautiful and miraculous and a culture that is excruciatingly divided and disconnected. So much so that it’s difficult if not impossible to exist without disassociating and escaping the pain—be that via our various addictions, spiritual bypassing, or in the case of my childhood: books.
It’s not easy being human, especially not now. The world as we know it is shifting and crumbling and in the process some of what holds us together is shifting and crumbling too. The deeper I go on this healing journey the more I realize that’s actually good. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s hella hard.
What’s been keeping things together is also tearing us apart. Which means things have to come undone before they can be put back together.
So if you tend to feel out of place in this world, I’d like to suggest that’s probably a good thing (“It’s no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society.” -Krishnamurti). If you feel like your life is a bit of a mess, or behind schedule, or maybe even falling apart, I want you to know I’m sorry (because that is all kinds of hard) and also suggest maybe this too is a good thing. And at the very least, you’re in good company. 👋🏼 We’re in this together.
Oh, and one more thing. If Mothers Day feels a little complicated, maybe don’t make yourself wrong for that either. Just because people did their very best with what they had doesn’t mean you got the love and care you needed.
And if you’re working to break some cycles so the next generation has a different experience, I see you. Thank you. That’s courage. And a blessing to us all. Big hugs.
Let’s keep walking each other home.
👉Resource share: The single best resource I’ve found re: challenging mother-daughter relationships is the work of Bethany Webster, leading expert on the mother wound (which is about how the structures of patriarchy get passed from generation to generation.) Her book Discovering the Inner Mother is excellent; a truly powerful gem on the path of healing.
This one really moved me. This is the first year I didn't connect with my mother either and it is indeed "hella painful." Your words is salve for my pain. Thank you.
Oh Kai, I'm reading this for the service time now, both readings have taken my breath away. Yes, we know what it means to be secondary! This quote was like a page out of the journal of my heart: "Recently, for me, this journey of inhabiting myself has become a breath-by-breath process. The more I heal and grow the more fully I inhabit my body and my life (yay!!)…AND the more the trauma, fear, and grief come rushing to the surface." I need to see you soon and grieve and breathe and laugh and dance and empty embody all it means to be the current most true iterations of ourselves. Than you for sharing your journey!