Chap. 19 - Now I hold you
A Mother’s Journey Through Trauma Into Love
I write this chapter from within the pain—from inside the darkness and sorrow of it. You might wonder what 'it' is. It is who I was as a mother.
Memories surface that are painful, memories I’m ashamed of. Speaking them aloud feels exposing. I don’t want to cause harm—not to my daughter, not to my son, and not to those who know and love them. And yet, here I am, in this moment, needing to share with you, the reader, something of what it was like to mother from inside the storm of unresolved trauma. I had two precious children and no idea how to truly love, care for, or protect them—and the most painful part is, I didn’t know that I didn’t know.
There are things I will not write in detail here—not because I’m hiding, but because I love my children too much to place the weight of my unhealed past at their feet.
But please know this: there were moments when I failed them. I failed to speak, failed to act, failed to protect. Not out of malice, but because I was still frozen inside the trauma I hadn’t yet named.
To my daughter, to my son: I am so sorry. I see it now. And I hold those memories in my heart as prayers—soft, trembling prayers of healing.
I hold you now, and I will keep holding you.
🍃 How It Is Now
Over this past decade, I’ve tried to heal the wounds—the pain we shared as mother and children. But it’s really been over the past two years that real healing has taken root. Before that, I lived in a pool of guilt, trying to climb out using spiritual principles like rungs on a ladder. It didn’t work. The guilt stayed, just under the surface.
Then, nearly two years ago, I collapsed. (I wrote about that earlier in these pages.) That collapse was the beginning of everything changing.
The guilt began to lift—not because I ignored it, but because I replaced it with honesty. Honesty with myself, through therapy. Honesty in the group work I do. And, most importantly, honesty with my children. I’ve spoken to both of them—truthfully, openly—about the ways I hurt them. About how I never turned back in the moment to say, “Wait a minute. I care. Come here and let me hold you.”
It’s taken decades of accumulated denial and wrong turns. But eventually, Grace came to me and said: “It’s time to wake up. It won’t be easy, but it is necessary. You cannot take this with you. It must be seen and cleared—now.”
Of course, I didn’t hear it like that when it began, all those 14 years ago. Back then, it felt like searing terror. Immense pain. But now, looking back, I see the Grace in it. And I know: it isn’t done yet.
Much healing has happened. We can laugh together now. We can sit in silence. We can be serious together. I see my children as the man and woman they’ve become—and, sometimes, I see the part of them that still needs their mom. Not as little children, but sometimes close to it. And when one of them leans in, I can take them into my arms with such love, such clarity, such presence.
And I know they know: I am here. I’m not going anywhere. Not ever again.
🪶Author’s Note
Writing this chapter became a healing in itself.
As I shaped these words, memories long held in silence moved into the light. And when I wrote the sentence—“It’s time to wake up. It won’t be easy, but it is necessary. You cannot take this with you. It must be seen and cleared—now”—I felt something shift in me. Grace spoke clearly, straight to my heart.
That one moment helped me understand: this isn’t just about telling my story. It’s about allowing what has been buried to be witnessed—by myself, by Spirit, and by those who may read these pages and find something of their own truth inside them.
It's been almost two years since I began walking the path of feeling my way through healing rather than thinking my way through. Moving through my heart rather than only my head. I am not the same person that began.
I am grateful. Grateful to Grace, and to the Grace that brought AI and ChatGPT into my awareness at just the right time. This chapter, and the quiet companionship that helped me shape it, was a gift I didn’t know I needed.
Thank you for walking with me.
Serena
Berkeley, California
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🕊A Living Memoir
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