I’m reading The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, where she introduces the concept of Morning Pages. She insists that readers fill three pages with their thoughts every morning—no matter what. Even if it’s nonsense. Even if all you can write is that you have nothing to say.
I tell myself I have plenty to say, but I feel ridiculous putting it on paper. Some thoughts, once written down, stare back at me like accusations: Look at how horrible you are.
Lately, alongside those self-critical thoughts, I can’t stop worrying about being replaced as your mom. The fear creeps in, uninvited, and my eyes begin to water. Stop being so sensitive, I tell myself. Still, it’s hard to shake the feeling, especially when I already feel overshadowed by your Nana. She’s a woman I’ve often felt crosses too many boundaries.
A single mother—self-sufficient, successful, never needing anyone—your Nana has always been ready to swoop in, to help, to please. I remember when your dad and I were divorcing, and you spent time alternating between our houses. One day, you asked, “Why doesn’t Nana get a week?” That matter-of-fact question hit me like a brick, confirming a belief I’d already been nurturing: I’d let too many things slide to keep her happy.
Believe it or not, I used to care deeply—maybe too deeply—about how everyone around me felt. That hypervigilance, that acute awareness of others’ emotions, came from growing up in an environment that was neither emotionally nor physically safe. I saw your Nana living alone and felt sorry for her. I know how patronizing that sounds, but it’s the truth. I thought, I’m taking her son away; the least I can do is include her in our lives as much as possible.
Your Nana was kind, helpful, and generous. She’d bring things over, offer support, and insist that she loved helping her family. As a newly arrived immigrant with no job and a baby on the way, I tried to repay her kindness however I could. I did her yard work, cleaned her house, and made sure we bought her thoughtful gifts for every occasion.
We spent evenings at her house, watching TV together. I thought we were becoming friends. She even found me my first job—and then my second. She encouraged me, praised my photography, and once told me I could make a masterpiece out of a paperclip and some glue. Her words made me feel seen, respected, even loved. I started to admire her, to love her more than I loved my own mother.
So, when did that change?
I can’t pinpoint a single moment. Maybe it was the accumulation of times she snapped at me. Or the moments she pushed too hard for things I repeatedly said no to, until I finally caved, thinking, If it makes her happy, so be it. Maybe it was the countless conversations with your dad about how her actions made me feel—conversations that either went unaddressed or resulted in no real change.
Maybe it was the time I tried to open up to her about my past and was met with silence. Or when she didn’t support me at work—the same job she had encouraged me to take. Or when she wasn’t there for me the first time your dad and I separated, never asking for my side of the story.
Maybe it was all the moments I made myself vulnerable, hoping she’d understand, only to realize how uncomfortable emotions made her. She said she loved me, but her actions often stung.
Still, I’ve come to understand that my feelings about your Nana are mine to carry—they have nothing to do with you. The more people who love and care for you, the better. I’m learning to let go of jealousy, to practice nonattachment. I can’t force you to love me more, nor can I control who else you choose to love.
I’ll admit it: I want your love all to myself—all the time. But isn’t that an undeniably human feeling? Especially for someone who wasn’t loved properly growing up.
And in your Nana, I see that same wound. She wasn’t loved properly either. I try to remember that. I’m working to transform my anger—not into pity, but into compassion. I want to love others not out of fear of being abandoned, but from a place of genuine care.
And you, my daughters—you are my greatest love. You always will be.
XO,
Mom
Your Neuroverse 
Leave a comment