The Ache of Wanting My Mother
For the ones who feel both love and loss on Mother’s Day.
My biological mom is addicted to drugs.
I don’t know where she is now—the last I heard, she was living on the streets of Denton.
But she wasn’t always this way.
There was a time before the meth. Before the chaos.
If you asked her, she’d tell you she was a great mom who loved her babies. That the system ripped us away.
If you asked me, I’d tell you she was a broken woman who chose the high over her own children—again and again.
I remember her passed out on the couch.
I remember the smell—soap and cigarettes.
I remember the yelling. The bruises. The silence after.
I remember her laugh.
I remember wishing it didn’t hurt to love her.
And I remember the day they took us away.
I was just a kid. But I knew what was happening.
The last time I saw her was behind a CPS building in Denton.
She ran after the car, sobbing, and dropped to her knees on the pavement.
Her rights had just been terminated.
She would never see me again… not until I was 19.
She always said she loved us.
But never enough to stop.
When we reconnected years later, she’d been clean for six years. She was proud of that.
But I wasn’t ready.
The pain didn’t care that she was sober now. It lived in me.
And seeing her again brought it all crashing back.
We tried to build something.
But every time she said, “I was a good mom,”
I’d have to smile and swallow the words I wanted to scream:
“I remember. I was there.”
After college, she started slipping again.
It started with tension. Mood swings. Strange behavior.
Then came the confession: she was using again.
When I was pregnant with my first child, she offered to throw my baby shower.
For a second, I let myself believe she could show up for me.
But the shower was at a bingo alley.
She bought decorations last-minute.
Forgot to invite most people.
She looked… hollow.
That was the last time I saw her.
A few weeks later, she admitted she was back on meth.
And I knew—I had to go no contact.
Even when we tried, she was never someone I could lean on.
Our lives were too far apart.
I had spent years clawing my way into stability.
She never left the storm.
And if I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve ever had that kind of person.
The one you can fall apart with.
The one who wraps their arms around you and says, “I’ve got you.”
And actually means it.
I love my adoptive mom. I’ve worked hard to build that bond.
And I know she sees me. I know she loves me.
But I don’t let many people love me—not fully.
Because moms are supposed to make you feel like you’re the most special person in the world.
And when you’ve spent your whole life wondering if you were ever wanted, it’s hard to believe it when someone finally says they do.
Still—for one fleeting moment—I thought maybe I had a mom again.
She had seen who I’d become.
She knew the life I’d built.
And she chose drugs again.
She didn’t leave by accident. She chose the high over healing. Again.
I asked her to move closer after her divorce. I told her I’d help her start over.
I would’ve made space for her.
Maybe even for her in my kids’ lives.
If she’d shown she was willing to fight for it.
But she didn’t.
And now, I carry this ache.
The ache of wanting a mother.
The ache of never really having mine.
The ache of being a daughter without a place to land.
Author’s Note:
This is a reflection on the loss of my biological mother—a grief that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.
Even after years of healing, there are still moments—especially around this time of year—when the grief resurfaces.
I’m incredibly grateful for the life I have now. My adoptive parents have given me a love I can stand on. A family I trust. A place to belong. And I carry deep respect and love for my mom, who chose me and has walked with me through so much.
But healing doesn’t mean the pain disappears.
Love and loss can live side by side.
And God meets us in the tension of both.
To the ones who are grieving…
To the ones who are healing…
To the ones still searching for a place to land—
Happy Mother’s Day.
You are not alone.
Thank you for your vulnerability in sharing. I hate that you ever experienced this, but honor how you’ve removed yourself from that life and your babes will know nothing but a dedicated and loving mom that shows up for them every single time. 💛