{ Motherless Daughters } uniting those experiencing motherloss

Our Stories

Amy's Story

I lost my mother to a cerebral aneurism when I was six years old. The loss of her physical presence must have been unbearable, so much so that to this day I am unable to conjure up the most fundamental characteristics we associate with people we love--her voice, her eyes, her touch. As time passes, my longing to know her only intensifies and my understanding of what I have lost becomes increasingly complex. I am certain now that it was more than the absence of her physical presence that created a great sense of longing in me; it was not knowing her essence, her soul, the very thing that makes us all human. After my Mother died, both sides of my family decided that the best way to "deal" with her sudden passing at the age of 31 was to issue a moratorium of silence, and so I lost her again and again. Because parents bear witness to the lives of their children from the moment of their birth onward, they know each child in a way others will never experience. Both of my mother's parents carried this unique knowing to their graves.

I am 34 years old and besides a few scattered facts, personal items, and pictures, I do not know my mother. Just this year I discovered when she was born and when she died. Dates are not much, but they offer a starting point. The shadow of a person begins to take shape when you can commemorate their birth and death. Last Saturday marked the 28th anniversary of her passing. It was a sad day for me. The pain of losing her is only trumped by my sense that I, alone, am the only person alive who thinks about her and wants to honor her life. I am perplexed and mystified by family members who repressed her memory for decades. The only way I can make sense of their silence is by choosing to believe that they can't bear to bring feelings so precious, so tender, to the surface.

Although I don't have visceral memories of my mother, I do remember growing up with the knowledge of her absence. It was, and still is, a palpable feeling, buoyed by the weight of silence and secrets. I have often felt disconnected from others, that I occupy a space on the periphery of love, at least a mother's love, with no clear path leading me to the center. I wonder sometimes how I would be different if my family had preserved her memory. It wasn't until I read Susan Griffin's "Our Secret" a few years back that I came to understand how a person's absence can be a powerful presence. This line stuck with me and provides some solace: "yet, even unremembered, the past never disappears. It exists still and continues under a mantle of silence, invisibly shaping lives." I like to think that despite my lack of memories, indelible traces of her remain etched in me.

I think I'm finally ready to untangle myself from the confusion and sadness I have felt since I was a child. I want to know my mother, grieve her death, and honor her as an important and meaningful part of who I am. No doubt, this journey has been a long time coming. Finally, I am ready to move toward the center, and to begin the process of replacing my emptiness with the sorrow of losing a real person--a person who mattered in this world, and still matters, at least to me.

Š Amy

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