I cannot change her—but I can change myself

Prologue

T

his isn’t the story of my difficult childhood. Yes, those years were confusing and painful. But I’m not here to rehash the pain, to dwell on the neglect I suffered, to point fingers at my mother.

Instead, I’d like to focus on the story of what came next: How I faced the hardships, tried to move past the pain, and — from my new vantage point — learned that this was the life Hashem custom-designed for me, with the exact tools and challenges I needed.

Even though I don’t have warm memories of my childhood, I always loved my mother deeply and understood that there was nothing malicious behind her words or behavior. She simply didn’t have the emotional capacity to nurture us. I truly believe she did everything in her power to be the best mother that she could be.

This is the story of how I made peace with my mother — with who she is and who she’ll never be.

Chapter 1

IFonly she were normal.

I’ve uttered those words hundreds if not thousands of times throughout my life. If only my mother were normal.

I remember going to a psychology workshop as a young teacher. The workshop leader asked the room to define “normal.” Turns out, there’s no real definition — it’s what society defines as normal.

My mother has no learning disability, no physical disability, no diagnosed mental illness. But even at a young age, I knew my mother wasn’t like everyone else’s.

I viewed my childhood friends as lucky, spoiled, privileged girls — even the ones from simple families, who didn’t have fancy minivans and whose mothers didn’t wear the latest high heels. They had supper on the table every night. They got new clothing when they needed it. They didn’t have to bathe their siblings and put them to bed. They didn’t have to clean up after dinner and wash the dishes. They didn’t have to wash and fold the laundry.

I ran the house because there was no other choice. If I didn’t do the laundry, it sat untouched in a pile next to the washing machine, and we’d have to pull out our dirty, rumpled clothing when we ran out of clean clothes. If I didn’t do the dishes, they’d sit in the sink for three days straight. If I didn’t bathe and put my younger sisters to bed — all three of them born in quick succession — they’d run around wild at ten p.m., waking up cranky and exhausted.

By the time I was in ninth grade, I became so efficient in supper cleanup, bath, and bedtime that I could escape each night to study at my friend Miri’s house. And that’s where my sanctuary lay.

Miri’s living room wasn’t just a study hall for me. It was my safe haven. A place where I didn’t need to step in and be the mother. A place where, in the middle of studying, Miri’s mother would walk in with a plate of fruit or some leftover supper. (Years later, she told me she saved a portion for me, knowing I probably hadn’t eaten enough at home.)

Every day after high school, as I’d walk up the steps to my house, I’d hold my breath. What will be today? Will Mommy be happy? Angry? Sad? I’d pause at the top step, hesitant to leave the cocoon of school behind and open the door.

If my mother was napping, I knew things weren’t good. It meant my mother was in a bad place: When she couldn’t deal with life, she’d drop everything and lock herself in her room.

On those days, I’d come up with games to keep my little sisters quiet or walk around the block with them. “Ma,” I’d whisper through her door, “I’ll take the little ones to the park so you can rest.”

When my mother was around, I’d try to fix things to make her happy. “Ma, can I prepare supper?” “Ma, let me do the dishes.” Seeing the slight relief on her face when I offered to help convinced me that maybe I could save her. Maybe I could make my mother normal.

I didn’t know at the time the damage this was causing me. That it was making me believe I could fix other people’s problems. That I was internalizing that you should make other people happy, even at your own expense. That it was breaking me.