Last week, my essay “The Child I Lost and the Inner Child I’m Now Learning to Love” was published on Tiny Buddha. In that piece, I wrote about grief, re-parenting myself, and the lessons my daughter continues to teach me even in her absence. What I’ve realized since then is that these lessons aren’t just ideas—they’re being tested every day in the way I show up for my mother, and for myself.
I wrote that essay as a way to cope. Writing helps me process.
Lately, I’ve been navigating caregiving for my mother, who needs more support as she grows older. My feelings toward her are complicated.
When I see her as she is now—a lonely woman in her seventies—I feel compassion. But when I think back to how emotionally absent she was during my childhood, my inner child has a lot to say about it.
Losing my daughter left a gaping hole in my heart. The image of a person bent over on a bench, chest hollowed out, is the closest I’ve seen to what that grief feels like. Caring for my mother has reopened old wounds I thought I had buried.
I’m trying to be the parent I always wished I had—especially to myself. And I’m learning to take the caregiving I once poured into my daughter and offer it back to me.
You’d think it would be simple to transfer that love to my mother. But it’s not.
With Lily, caregiving was constant, exhausting, and often hard—but it was also easy, because it was rooted in love. With my mother, caregiving is more occasional, but it feels like a battle.
There’s an angel on my shoulder whispering: Call your mom. She has no one. You’re her emotional support. Be a good daughter.
And then there’s my inner child shouting: Where was she when I needed her? She didn’t care about me—why should I care about her?
Sometimes I stare at the phone before I dial, my chest tight with resistance. And yet, when I finally call, there’s a relief in hearing her voice—even if the conversation is brief, even if it’s complicated.
These voices leave me stumbling down a bumpy road with no clear map.
I know it’s unrealistic to expect my mother to suddenly become the mom I needed. So instead, I’ve started listening to the voice inside me—the child who has been waiting so long to be heard. Like my daughter, she is authentic. She doesn’t hold back.
Sometimes she yells. Sometimes she’s petty. Sometimes she just wants to slam the door. And I let her. I give her space to feel it all.
Then, I compromise.
I call my mom. Not every day, like she would want, but every few days—at a pace my inner child can handle. It’s my way of showing both of them that I’m listening.
What I’m learning is that caregiving—whether for a child, a parent, or myself—will never be simple. It brings up love and resentment, tenderness and anger, all at once. And maybe that mix is part of what makes it real.
I can’t show up perfectly. But I can show up truthfully. And maybe that’s enough.
I know I’m not alone in this tug-of-war between caring for others and caring for ourselves. Maybe you’ve felt it too—with a parent, a child, or even within your own heart.
If any of this resonates, I invite you to read my full essay on Tiny Buddha, The Child I Lost and the Inner Child I’m Now Learning to Love. My hope is that, wherever you are on your journey, you’ll remember to listen to the small, tender voice inside you—and to show up for yourself with as much love as you give away.