The Garden of Me

I don’t have a relationship with my mother.

That’s a sentence I never thought I’d say out loud-much less write out for others to read. And still, there it is. Quiet. Solid. Heavy. True.

For most of my life, I tried to be the version of a daughter that would unlock her love. If I could just behave better. If I could just say the right thing, apologize first, go along, stay small, not cause waves. Maybe then…she’d see me. Maybe then, I’d get the mother I needed.

But what I got were flickers. Moments that felt good-but never lasted. Nothing steady. Nothing to grow roots in.

For the past 17 years, I’ve lived in this tension: Do I do what’s good for me? Or do I shrink again just to keep that door cracked open?

Then last year, my health took center stage. Not just a few bad weeks-my entire life shifted into survival mode. Appointments, procedures, pain management… and in between it all, moments where I just tried to live a “normal” day. The kind of day people take for granted.

One doctor didn’t just give me medications. He gave me instructions. A packet about how to clean up my life-not just physically, but emotionally and energetically, too. Food. Movement. Rest. And people. He said, without flinching:

“Some people in your life won’t support your healing. They won’t know how to exist with a healthier version of you.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Some people started cheering me on. Showing up. Helping. Begging to see me return to myself. Others? They seemed almost… angry at my recovery. Or maybe threatened by it. Suddenly, I wasn’t useful in the same way. I wasn’t bending anymore. I wasn’t able to patch up every family wound or keep the peace when things turned toxic.

That’s when I realized:

This isn’t just a season of healing. This is a season of weeding.

And let me be clear:

Some of the deepest, most tangled weeds in my garden came from people I love. From people I’m related to. From people who believed they had a right to my story, my body, my time.

One in particular hurt more than I want to admit-because that one called herself “mother.”

The more I healed, the more obvious it became: I was no longer available for dysfunction dressed as family. I was no longer willing to keep myself small to make others comfortable. I was no longer going to ignore my own roots just to keep someone else’s from being disturbed.

It felt like an attack. Not just from one person-but from several directions. Moments when I thought I could finally rest… were when I had to defend myself the most. And the hardest part? The silence from those who saw what was happening and chose to say nothing.

But this garden I’m growing-it’s mine. It’s tender. It’s intentional. And I have to live here. Others? They only visit. They don’t get to decide what belongs anymore.

For the first time, I’m planning what actually feeds me. I’m pulling what starves me-even if it grew here for years. Even if it once looked like love.

Rootnote:

Not every connection is meant to grow with us. But each one shows us something about what we truly need. This is me, choosing growth over guilt. This is me, tending to the garden of me.