Flicker of Truth

This is the first morning I’ve had to myself in a long time. The past few months have been a whirlwind — moving into a new house, adjusting to a new neighborhood, transitioning Sky from a full-time nanny to part-time daycare, and hosting my family for two weeks. It was a lot.

What has been weighing on me the most is my mom’s dementia. It’s safe to say it has progressed significantly since I last saw her six months ago. I don’t think there was a single moment during this visit when she recognized me as her daughter. At times, I felt she might have sensed some familiarity — almost as if my name was on the edge of her memory, someone she knew well but couldn’t quite place.

In truth, I can’t help but feel like it was a terrible visit. Over the last two weeks, I saw the worst of myself emerge. It was hard to be myself around her. Hard to be her daughter while pretending I wasn’t. Hard to care while trying not to care. I tried to do things she once appreciated — like making her potato leek soup (or any soup) — only to have her criticize it, without acknowledging the effort or offering a word of thanks. I didn’t do it for the appreciation, but cooking is my love language. When that avenue was completely shut down, it felt almost impossible to show love.

There were moments when I looked directly into her eyes, searching for even the faintest glimmer of warmth. Instead, she met my gaze with a blank stare before looking away, the way you do when your eyes meet a stranger’s. In hindsight, the blank stares and avoidance were kinder than the looks of disgust or frustration.

There were moments when she truly appreciated Sky, commenting on how adorable she was — completely unaware of their familial connection. She wanted to be around Sky, but an unpredictable toddler made her anxious. She disapproved of anything Sky put in her mouth that wasn’t food and panicked at every perceived danger — every potential fall, every bump against something hard, which, in her eyes, was nearly constant. I don’t remember her being this risk-averse with me… or maybe I should be a lot more messed up than I am.

Over the two weeks, Sky began to pick up on the constant negative signals from my mom. It was a lot of “No,” “Don’t,” “Be careful,” “Stop” — not the kind of words or energy a toddler wants to embrace. She started expressing her disapproval by trying to bite my mom and approaching her with sass and spice. On some level, it was a little funny — watching a 14 moths old standing up for herself and rejecting what didn’t sit well with her. If there was any silver lining to this visit, it was seeing Sky refuse to take crap from others. Maybe, in some way, she inspired me. Her unfiltered emotions gave me permission to embrace my own truth.

As time passed, I allowed myself to let go of my duties as a daughter. I let myself simply exist alongside a stranger in my home — engaging only when necessary. I withheld bids for connection, and at times, I even ignored her presence entirely. Isn’t it acceptable not to feel obligated to tend to a stranger? Because that’s who I am in her presence. I don’t know this woman. She is not the person I once called Mom.

I feel a great loss. And while I know that’s expected, I’m not sure if it even makes sense. Did I fabricate my own pain through false expectations? Why do we need to be loved by our biological parents? Is it more devastating, more tragic, to not be loved by them? Do we see it as a birthright?

I believe we all deserve to be loved and to feel loved. But have we conditioned ourselves to believe that love comes from limited sources? Have we set ourselves up for heartbreak by expecting certain forms of love to be guaranteed — when, in reality, nothing is?

I felt the sting of losing a mother’s love. And yet, I still felt abundant in love. I didn’t feel deprived; I didn’t feel empty. Instead, I sensed no shortage of love flowing to me from the Universe. I still felt connected to something greater. Maybe the love I once received from her hasn’t vanished — maybe it has only transformed, recycled into another form that I’m receiving now.

Expanding means embracing all the ways we can perceive and experience love. In my contracted state, I clung tightly to where that love could — and should — come from. While I gained insights and grew in my own ways during this visit, I’m still left with a debt I feel I can’t repay.

I borrowed time for myself — to stay level-headed enough to care for my toddler as we adjusted to life without a nanny. I did what I felt I needed to do to survive. I set boundaries. I didn’t pour everything I had into being a good daughter because I had to pour everything I had into being the best mother I could be.

And yet, despite trusting my decision, I’m left with a great deal of guilt and shame. I feel out of honor. I can’t help but wonder if my dad was disappointed in me. I don’t know if he saw a daughter who didn’t live up to her obligations, one who abandoned her duties to care for aging parents. What I do know is that he saw a stressed-out, six-months-pregnant daughter, tired from caring for a toddler and trying to host family visiting from halfway around the world. This should have been a privilege — getting to spend time with them — but instead, it felt more like a burden.

The burden isn’t with hosting my family; it’s with hosting reality — the reality I’ve been hiding from. I haven’t done my part in sharing the burden with my dad. It’s not just the distance. I haven’t asked about the details of my mom’s condition. Shamefully, I haven’t wanted to know. I’ve been shielding myself from the truth — afraid of the grief I would have to confront. With my mom here, I can see the changes for myself. I am now subjected to what my dad experiences every single day. I can see how straining this has been for him, and how my mom’s condition has greatly diminished his health and quality of life. Dementia has stolen time from both my parents — time I wish they had to spend with my growing family.

It feels like there is no resolution — no neat conclusion to sum up my learnings or insights. I am reminded of why writing is so important to me. It gives me a way to navigate layered emotions, allowing them to flow through me while leaving a trail behind. I can see how I have changed along this journey. There was a time in my life when guilt and shame would have consumed me. While it still might not feel like enough, I’m surprised by the self-compassion I have been able to muster. You did the best you could, I tell myself. Tomorrow, you get another chance to do better — whatever “better” might mean.