In the tender echoes of “Mom,” a journey of healing began — breaking cycles, mending bonds, and nurturing a new legacy of love and compassion
From Pain to Purpose — Healing Childhood Traumas in the Heart of Motherhood
A Mother’s Day Reflection-Transforming Generational Trauma into a Legacy of Love
As Mother’s Day nears, I almost let it slip my mind, and truly, I have my reasons. In my heart, I’ve always felt that Mother’s Day shouldn’t be confined to just one calendar date. To me, it’s a daily celebration for those who revel in the joys of motherhood. Yet, I recognize that this sentiment isn’t universally shared. Many others view Mother’s Day through a different lens, their opinions colored by experiences less rosy than the greeting card ideal.
For some, Mother’s Day evokes memories not of warm embraces and breakfasts in bed but of expectations unmet and relationships strained. It’s a day that, for them, underscores loss or longing rather than celebration — reminders of what might have been or what never was. Each year, as the day approaches, their ambivalence grows, a complex bouquet of emotions, each stem a story of love, regret, or indifference.
And so, as the day dawns, while many celebrate with flowers and calls home, others greet the day with a nod of acknowledgment and nothing more. They find their own ways to understand and engage with a day so heavily weighted with societal significance, perhaps hoping that someday, their perspectives might shift, finding a new reason to embrace the day with a fresher, more joyful heart.
Motherhood is a gloriously stressful experience with a mixture of emotional bliss and turmoil. The sweet and sour experiences are shaped by the intricacies of our experiences as kids and then as parents. A beautiful experience followed by challenging experiences and no instructions on how to do it “Right.”
When I turned eighteen years old, a deep-seated readiness to embrace motherhood took root in my heart. Back then, I was a young nurse, working diligently in a private clinic nestled in the heart of the Dominican Republic, where I was born and raised. Each day at work began with a simple ritual; I would tuck away my few possessions in a small locker and make the short walk to the unit, my heart beating a fervent, prayerful rhythm against my chest as I approached the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU).
“Dear Lord in heaven,” I would whisper under my breath, “please do not let any of these babies pass away on my watch. Fill me with your boundless love so that I might share it with these little ones, so fragile and new to this world. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
In the delicate Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), where life begins in vulnerability, my journey into the essence of motherhood was quietly unfolding. There, among the soft beeps and gentle hums of medical equipment, I devoted myself to the care of the tiniest patients — premature infants grappling with complex health challenges. My role went beyond the duties of a nurse; I became a guardian of the first fragile days of life, providing the nurturing touch that only a mother’s heart can offer.
Each day, I donned my personal protective equipment and stepped into a world where every small action mattered. I would smile warmly, read to the little ones, use the soothing melodies of music therapy to calm their tiny beating hearts or engage in soft conversations with anxious parents. My favorite moments, however, were when I could open the incubator doors. With utmost care, I would lift these little fighters from their transparent cribs, placing them gently against my chest. There, wrapped in the warmth of my embrace, I would sing to them — a lullaby of hope and strength.
The NICU was a place of profound emotion. It was heart-wrenching to watch mothers tenderly care for their babies, only to leave in tears because their little one wasn’t yet strong enough to come home. Yet, it was equally moving to witness the sheer joy and relief on the faces of families whose babies, finally stable, were ready to leave the hospital. Those were moments of triumph, not just for the families but for all of us who had cared for these resilient souls.
In this sacred space, where each day was a delicate balance between uncertainty and celebration, I found my calling. Caring for these infants not only opened the door to motherhood for me but also deepened a profound connection to life’s most tender beginnings.
Some days after my shifts in the NICU, where life’s delicate beginnings were both my challenge and solace, I would return home carrying stories of my day, eager to share them. My relationship with my mother was tenuous at best — she was quick to irritation and often retreated into her own world. Yet, undeterred, I sought to bridge the gap between us, hoping that my tales from the hospital might spark some connection, some shared ground.
Despite her usual demeanor, whenever I began to talk, my mother would stop whatever she was doing and silently withdraw to the bathroom. There, behind closed doors, she would light up a cigarette, a habit I had often cautioned her against due to its dangers. But she seemed to find some solace in the smoke, some escape from the rigors of communication she seemed to dread.
I would find myself seated on the cool floor outside the bathroom, speaking through the door to her. My words often felt like they were echoing down a long, empty hallway, meeting no ears. I talked about the babies, about the victories of the day, and about the little miracles we nursed hour by hour. Sometimes, the silence from the bathroom was punctuated by a brief acknowledgment or a terse suggestion, “Call your father and talk to him about it.” Her favorite refrain was a gentle dismissal that both stung and saddened me.
My father and I shared a robust, open line of communication, filled with the back-and-forth exchange of ideas and emotions — everything I yearned for with my mother. As I sat there outside that bathroom door, I often wondered about the walls between us, both literal and metaphorical, and why they seemed so insurmountable.
In those moments, reduced to monologues seeping under a bathroom door, I held onto hope. Hope that one day, the smoke might clear, the door might open, and the conversation between us could be as nurturing as the care I gave to those fragile newborns. My hope: like my patients who grew stronger day by day, our relationship too might slowly heal and flourish. One day, in one of those bathroom conversations, I told her, “Mom, I have taken care of so many babies that I know I am going to be a good mother, and I want to have a baby soon.” She rushed off the toilet, opened the door, and yelled to me, “You are too young to have a baby.” I was close to turning 19 years old, I believe. I replied, “But you were about my age when you had me.” She slammed the door, and that was the end of that conversation.
Once, my mother was the heartbeat of our home, her laughter filling the air as she played with Dad and me. Those days are etched in my memory — a time when happiness wasn’t about what we had but who we were with. Life was simple, and joy seemed endless as the games we played together.
However, the dynamics of our family began to shift with the arrival of my siblings. First came my brother, then another a year later, my second brother, and finally, my sister two years later. Our family grew rapidly, and with each new addition, the threads of our close-knit fabric stretched thinner. My mother, once so full of vivacity, found herself overwhelmed by the demands of caring for four young children. The endless responsibilities left her no time for games or laughter.
As the eldest, the change weighed heavily on me. Dad, in pursuit of better prospects and the American Dream, left our home, and with his departure, much of the burden fell onto my shoulders. I watched as my mother transformed, her stress manifesting in clouds of cigarette smoke —a stark contrast to the woman who used to chase us around the living room. Her once joyful demeanor was replaced by irritability and a quick temper that flared over the smallest provocations.
I found myself stepping into roles I was barely old enough to understand, sacrificing my own childhood to help manage the household and care for my younger siblings. It was a steep price for a child to pay, watching the carefree moments dissolve into a routine marked by duties and responsibilities.
Those early years of play became distant echoes, tender memories of a time when happiness was just a game away. Yet, amid the challenges, those memories also served as a reminder of the love that once bound us together — a love I hoped would one day find its way back into my mother’s heart. I remember helping her as much as I could. I learned to cook at a very young age (about 9 or 10 years old). At first, I used to add a lot of salt to the meals, so much at times they could not eat them. Mom was tough; she knew I was doing it on purpose, so one day, she told me, “No matter what you do, cooking is going to be your responsibility, and you are NOT going to get rid of it.” As I cried, thinking, what have I done to deserve a life like this? I had obtained physical and emotional childhood trauma to last this life and many other lives.
Growing up, I often found myself asking questions that even adults seemed to avoid, questions that seemed simple for a child like me but loaded with complexity. For instance, I wondered why the boys were allowed to play outside while the girls were expected to stay indoors, tending to chores. Why wasn’t I outside playing instead of being in the kitchen preparing meals or cleaning? The response I always received was straightforward yet unsatisfactory: “Because they are boys, and you are a girl, you cannot go outside and play until the chores are done.”
This answer never made sense to me, yet it was the one I received every time I voiced my confusion. Year after year, I raised the same questions, but the answers remained unchanged, which only fueled my frustration. This ongoing cycle of questioning and unsatisfying answers persisted until it was momentarily interrupted whenever one of my siblings was hospitalized, an event that happened all too frequently.
In the year 2010, my journey into motherhood was marked by the severe trials of pregnancy sickness. It was a relentless struggle; not even a sip of water could pass my lips without triggering an episode of vomiting that lasted throughout my pregnancy. As my body changed, I felt as if I was losing a part of myself with the extra weight, and to complicate matters further, I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia. This condition brought on not only high blood pressure but also swelling of my hands and feet, and at times, my entire body seemed to swell uncomfortably.
Night after night, I wrestled with finding a comfortable position to sleep, yet despite these hardships, the sensation of the life growing inside me filled me with profound joy. As my belly grew and the due date neared, the anticipation of meeting my daughter kept my spirits high.
Then came the unforgettable night of her birth. In a decision that I would later recall with a mix of humor and regret, I opted out of any pain relief during the delivery. As labor intensified, the maternity suite was prepared for the possibility of an emergency C-section. Exhaustion gripped me; the hours stretched on, and with every passing moment, I grew more fatigued. The room buzzed with activity as I shifted positions, tried hot baths, and endured massages and walks — all efforts to advance the labor, which seemed interminably painful. The pelvic exams were the worst; they were frequent and uncomfortable, and frustratingly, my cervix seemed reluctant to dilate fully (a woman’s cervix dilates from 0 centimeters up to 10 centimeters during the normal labor and delivery process).
Twelve hours into labor, surrounded by a team that seemed like the cast of a dramatic play — my partner to my left, my sister and father providing physical comfort by massaging my head, a friend to my right, my attentive doctor directly ahead, and two dedicated nurses cheering me on — I hit a wall. I informed everyone that I couldn’t push any longer; my body and spirit were spent. As I felt myself slipping towards unconsciousness, they rallied around me, their voices a chorus of encouragement.
In a moment of sheer agony mixed with determination, as I felt an immense burning, my daughter’s head finally emerged, causing a significant perineal laceration (fancy word for vaginal tear). I was ready to surrender to the exhaustion when the doctor, seeing how close we were, urged, “Just one more big push, and she will be out; you are almost done.” Channeling every reserve of energy, I pushed, screamed, and cried out as she made her way into the world, her cries mingling with the emotional tears of everyone present.
As they got ready to stitch the perineal laceration, the baby was placed on my chest; I was overwhelmed by weakness but overwhelmed by a greater love. Barely able to hold her, I managed to tell the nurse in my weary voice, marked by my heavy Spanish accent, “My arms can’t hold her; I am too weak.” Understanding and kindness filled the nurse’s actions as she gently supported my arms, enabling me to hold my newborn daughter. At that moment, every struggle seemed worth it, and the room filled not just with cries but with the sounds of a new beginning.
Years later, in the midst of the chaos of motherhood, I heard a tender voice calling out “Mom” repeatedly. I glanced around in disbelief, struggling to accept that the little girl was indeed calling for me. The reality of being utterly responsible for another human being, reliant on me for everything, was overwhelming. Each stumble in parenting weighed heavily on me; I feared disappointing my child with each mistake.
Gradually, I recognized a troubling pattern emerging — I was starting to echo my own mother’s harsh ways of yelling and screaming. This realization struck a deep chord, awakening a fierce determination within me. I refused to perpetuate the cycle of hostility, humiliation, and trauma that had shadowed my family for generations, from my mother to my grandmother and beyond.
Committed to changing the narrative, I began my healing journey. I had to deal with the roots of my trauma, confronting the shadows that lingered within. This path led to a gradual mending of my inner child, allowing me to forge healthier relationships not only with my daughter but also with my mother and other family members.
I extended apologies to my mom, acknowledging that my past actions were based on a limited awareness and understanding. I sought forgiveness from my daughter for times when my reactions were less than ideal, vowing to maintain this practice of accountability. Most importantly, I learned the art of self-compassion —embracing kindness, patience, and love toward myself.
This transformation did not erase the past, but it illuminated a future where the chains of generational trauma no longer held us bound. Through understanding and healing, I set forth a new legacy —one of love and compassion, breaking free from the shadows that had enveloped our family for too long.
