After my mother left when I was 22 months old, I lived with my aunt and uncle for about a year. I don’t remember that time, but I was told I called my aunt “mom.” My aunt expressed a desire to adopt me and asked my father, who was unable to care for me at the time —but instead of allowing it, he removed me from their home.

I’m still not entirely sure why. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was fear of being replaced. All I know is that he fought so hard through the divorce to claim me, only to have me live elsewhere after she left. I was a pawn in his selfish game.

As an adult, I’ve often wondered if that was my breaking point. From that moment on, I never truly attached to another adult—except for my grandfather. He was the only one who made me feel safe.

A Carousel of “Moms”

After I was taken from my aunt and uncle, my father married again. Wife #3. I was three years old.

One memory sticks out clearly: I was in the bath, and my stepmother gently suggested that I could call her “mom.” Despite the care she showed me for almost seven years, I couldn’t do it. I had no memory of my real mother, but I knew she wasn’t it. Something in me resisted.

She looked after me the best she could while married to my father—a man whose legacy with women is built on abuse, infidelity, and drug use. Their marriage ended violently, like all of them eventually did.

Letters to My Mother

I met my mom during this time (more on that in a previous post here) and we moved back to my grandparent’s house. We wrote to each other for about 2 years. My mother kept some of my letters and recently gave them back to me. Reading them breaks my heart, thinking about that little girl that longed to see her mother and understand what happened.

June 9, 1993
10 years old

Your Life:
Friends are caring
Not using
Love is sharing
Not fight
Kids are lovable and adorable
See them, trust them, and keep in touch
Care for them and not abuse
Please love me
Not use me or fake.
Please tell me the truth
If you do or don’t, if you don’t I won’t

Dear Mom,
That was a poem I wrote just for you. You know when the poem says “Please tell me the truth” that means tell me the truth of what happened to me when I was little. So how are you? I’m fine. I cried when you said you couldn’t come because I haven’t seen you for 9 or 8 years. Well besides last year you only stayed for a week, that’s not very long after 9 or 8 years. You stopped writing in June. I didn’t get a card for my birthday. Gosh that’s horrible. Well if you are having a hard time feeding your kids, make a game out of it, it works for me, it can work for you. Have a nice day! Write back. Bye,

Love always,
Beth

P.S. I have very few friends and I don’t get sick or a cold either. Love you bye again.

That little girl in me still aches.

Silenced and Controlled

During that same time, my father married again—wife #4 (I call her Wicked Witch of the West). That lasted 11 months.

I continued writing letters to my mom and would sneak to my friend’s house to try to call her. The number belonged to her father-in-law, and she was never there. I never got through.

I didn’t have a great relationship with wife #4. She went through my things and found my diary. Inside was a passage where I raged about my father, wrote all the things I wasn’t allowed to say out loud. She used that journal like a weapon. She never showed him, but she made it clear she could. And that power kept me obedient—and kept me away from my grandparents.

Eventually, their marriage ended the way all my father’s relationships did: violently. He found out she had an affair and smashed the shower door into a thousand pieces.

We returned once again to my grandparents’ trailer. And he dove headfirst into meth.

Final Reflection: The Mother Wound Is Bigger Than One Person

For years, I believed my pain came solely from my mother’s absence. But I’ve come to understand that the mother wound is much deeper and more complex.

It wasn’t just the loss of her—it was the betrayal, neglect, and abandonment from every adult who followed.

From my father using me like a pawn…
To my aunt’s love being severed without my choice…
To a carousel of stepmothers who were temporary, controlling, or complicit…

I was passed around, silenced, manipulated—and unmothered, over and over again.

The mother wound isn’t always caused by a single woman. Sometimes it’s created—and then cemented—by a whole system of caregivers who fail to protect you, to see you, to love you consistently.

Healing the wounds is how to break the cycle—not just for me, but for my children and every life that comes after me.

If This Resonates…

You are not alone. If you’ve been abandoned, passed over, or raised by people who didn’t truly nurture you—your pain is valid. And your healing is possible. Subscribe to continue this journey with me, comment below to tell your story, or follow me on social media.

Let’s keep breaking cycles, together

Much love,

Beth