Difficult Mother-daughter relationships
Were you your mother’s favorite child? Did you delight her? Some happy children grow up knowing they delight their mothers. Often these children have very similar personalities and languages of love, like their mothers. The mothers of these children understand and easily relate to their offspring. Often these daughters grow up to have healthy, mutual relationships with other women as friends, bosses and roommates.
But what about children who did not delight their mothers? What happens to children whose mothers struggled to understand their offspring and maybe only tolerated the child’s vastly different personality and language of love? These daughters are likely to grow up and have problems relating to other women, either keeping them at a distance, or befriending women who are cold, indifferent or even mean to them. A daughter like this may grow up believing her mom did not love her. She may think she could do nothing right. I have mentioned this in my post “difficult person or different personality.” I also discussed personality and love languages in earlier posts (“No Favorite child,” and “The Four Greek Temperaments,” so if you missed any of these, please check them out).
As a teen or adult, she may try to communicate her pain and frustration to her mom in hopes of reconciling the broken relationship. Some mothers do begin to understand their daughters better. Sometimes the mothers will not listen though, and the relationship can never be healed or is only partially healed.
I was one of those awkward daughters who often did not delight her mom (or I did not think I did). Yet my mom DID love me. My language of love (words of affirmation and also a very close second, physical affection) did not match my mother’s love language (acts of service). We also had nearly opposite personalities (by MB, I am an ENFP, but a weak extrovert. My mom is an ESTJ).
As a mature woman, I look back and guess that my mom felt very good about “loving” me, because she served us faithfully, such as cooking for us. In fact, I wonder if she found cooking dinner every single night, without fail, boring, but if she ever did, she never complained. She always made sure we had a hot meal. I am convinced this was a huge sacrifice for her, and I remain impressed that she did this. It was dessert that she loved to cook/bake, and she was excellent at it! Because my mom made that dinner every single night, (whenever humanly possible), I know she worked hard to show us her love. I am sad to say that as a child, I missed this fact and actually questioned her love, as I’ll show in this post.
My mom made me take vitamins. She drove me to the dentist and to my occasional doctor visits. I think my mom felt great, because she valued acts of service to her, and she served us faithfully too. I think my mom believed I loved her, because I was a dutiful child who washed all the dishes for our family of six. I even cleaned the entire kitchen each night after dinner. In her quiet way, she said, “Thank you.” The problem was that I was miserable and felt unloved. My mom was a woman of few words, unless she was talking to an adult woman. As a very serious and logical person, conversations with children may have seemed frivolous and boring to her. Perhaps doctors or teachers told her, “children are to be seen and not heard.”
Added to our communication disconnect, my mom and I are nearly 100% different in personality too. I wondered if listening to me may have frustrated her, because I would have used my imagination, warm heart and free spirit to communicate, while my sensible, cool headed and well structured mom could have easily felt I did not know how to communicate sensibly. At least I assumed this, because she did not engage in my silly talks, but would tell me she had to get back to work doing some chore. I may have driven her crazy.
Furthermore, I have heard that some highly intelligent people are not comfortable with affection and physical demonstrations in communications. Some of these genius people may not be comfortable with heart-felt talk and eye contact during casual conversation. If so, my mom was one of those very smart people.
Unfortunately for both of us, I loved to make heart-felt talk, and look right into a person’s eyes while sharing from my heart. I also loved to laugh and tell silly stories. I loved to hug and could give hugs many times a day, if allowed. I would hold my parent’s hand or pat their back, if they let me.
My mom may have been distracted by this affection or she may just have hated it. Unfortunately I remember, as a toddler, hearing, “You aren’t a baby anymore, no more of this,” or “only one hug, and that’s at bedtime.” As a toddler I was not ready to grow out of hugs, and I probably drove my poor mother crazy with my pleas for more affection.
My mom was also a very, very beautiful woman, but somehow she did not know this. My sister and I often complimented her, but she disagreed. That made me very sad for her. She was very modest. She dressed modestly and did not spend much money on her own clothes. And when there was little dessert left she took the smallest piece. My mom was so humble, maybe she worried about us.
My mom may have feared we, her four children, would become arrogant if she praised us. So more often, I remember her pointing out my mistakes instead of praising my effort and successes. This method may have felt helpful and inspiring to her as a child, and she may simply have used it once she had us. As a result, I think she was sincere using this method of communication. But, because my first language of love is words of affirmation, I felt starved for love. From my mom’s criticism, to her lack of praise and hugs, to her discomfort with chatting with me, I felt like I was a nuisance to my mom. I probably did not realize my mom wanted to do chores, and my pleas for hugs and attempts to draw her into conversation kept her from a way she thought she needed to show love. Perhaps my attempts felt unloving to her, so she did often remind me to do homework or chores instead. Likely she was trying to get me to “show love” to her in a more meaningful way.
My mom did not readily smile, nor smile easily at me. Again, this is more about her personality. For me as a child this further cemented my sorrow and wrong belief my mom did not love me.
I did try to reason with her, as I grew into a tween. But my mom rebuffed my words at times and silenced me, telling me my desire for more affection for positive words was babyish and disrespectful. And since neither of us knew anything about personality or languages of love, maybe my pleas even seemed unloving to her. I am sure she wanted me to be mature, but I felt stunted.
Sadly I pulled away from my mother. I still dutifully washed all of our family’s dishes, cleaned the entire kitchen after dinner and helped with any other chores she asked me to do, and I did not complain. My mom always thanked me. She was a very polite woman. But by my teens, I gave up asking for hugs or words of affirmation.
Even as a small child, I had given up telling my mom about bullies who hit me or hurt my feelings. If a teacher was unjust, I never thought to ask my mom to talk to her. I believed I had to defend myself and to some extent, take care of myself. I became very private, because I did not want my mom to criticize my “free spirited, goofy and imaginative” hopes and dreams. Again, she probably wanted to help me to be more like her, thinking that everyone is the same, and somehow I was misbehaving by not being like her. She just did not know that it was God who made me different, not me trying to rebel against being like her.
I was too young to appreciate that my mom never abandoned us. She kept a baby book about me, and she wrote facts in a school year’s journal and kept report cards in its pockets. She nursed me until I was four months old. I once resented learning my mom had me induced (instead of waiting to go into natural labor), yet even this was a good thing to do, because this allowed my birthday to come before Father’s Day. Oh thank you mom! Then I would never have to give up my special day for my dad (who had to be treated as a king on Father’s Day). By her inducing me, I got to have my own special day to celebrate. My mom really did look out for me in many ways.
In so many ways, my hard working mom served me. But I could not see this as loving me, because she would not or could not talk much to me or give me words of encouragement but rather so much criticism. Her lack of hugs and physical affection, from my toddlers day up, left me emotionally starved.
Yet she was not stingy either. Her second language of love was gift giving. We had so little money, yet my mom realized I was her one child who liked art and dolls. She did not buy me brand name items, and I was thrilled with the dolls and crayons and coloring books she got for me. (to this day I don’t even recognize name brands, and my mom’s gifts were always wonderful to me). Even though my siblings liked tough toys and athletic items, my mom knew I did not like these, and she got what I wanted on a shoe string budget. I was always happy with her gift giving. I wish I had seen she was showing me love by doing this, but I did not understand yet.
Sadly, I resented my mom. I could say I “pulled away from her,” but my mom would not have said that about me. I was her hard working, dutiful, non-complaining, obedient daughter. My mom was very satisfied with our relationship and she never complained about me (ironically, my younger sister once said I was the golden child, even though I felt like the rusted child). Because I was so dutiful and faithful, I think my mom felt I received her love and loved her back. It was a strange place to be in, and I felt so alone, because I could not tell my mom how I was dying inside.
After much prayer as a young adult, I confronted, not my mom, but my dad, about his temper and the distance in our relationship. My mother interrupted us, and she was upset in her quiet way. She told me children, even adult children, never confront their parents for any wrong, and parents never apologize. I wonder if my mom felt guilty, because she never stopped my dad from saying and doing such harsh things to us. Maybe she feared I would confront here too, although I was not blaming my mom, only my dad.
Yet my dad disagreed with my mom’s words, and he apologized. He also listened to my plea for more words of affirmation and less words of anger and criticism, and more hugs. He actually worked on these qualities.
As a mature adult, I am sad to think of my mom’s fear. I think this is why she kept many family secrets hidden. Maybe she hoped they would go away. In some ways I am like my mom, and I suffer from fear and want to hide things. As a result, I am sad about any of the ways that our differences came from any fear that plagued my mom. I hate to think of her suffering that way, as I know how much I have suffered from fear in my own life. I wish I could have taken my mature me back in time and reassured my mom of my love and reassured her none of us is perfect and I did not need her to be perfect even if I did need more hugs and reassurances. I did not even ask her to apologize for the ways I felt neglected. Would this have helped her overcome her fear?
But as a young adult, hearing my mom’s rebuke, and remembering her rebuke when I tried to talk about this as a tween, I never told her about my pain in our relationship. It took me years, but with advice from a friend, I avoided any confrontation with my mom, but did talk to her. I kept our conversation upbeat (while trembling with fear on the inside). I simply said, “Mom, I need more kind words from you, more encouragement and more hugs.” My mom did not smile, but she said, she could work on that. I still had to ask for affirmation, such as asking, “Mom are you proud of me for this?”
She would say, “Yes.” I could ask for a hug, and she was always stiff when I hugged her, but she did not push me away. This was not the exact relationship I had hoped for, but it was much better than it used to be.
When Parkinson’s began to affect my mom, she pulled back again. The kind words dwindled and she was more adverse to hugs again. Eventually dementia set in, and she said less and less to me. When my mom died, I cried. I was shocked by the waves of sorrow I felt, not just because she died, but because of the relationship we never shared. I never grew as close to my mom as I had wanted. I realize my mom could never love me the way I wanted, and likely I had been asking for too much from her. I could never tell my mom the things that hurt. I never told her my deepest hopes, dreams, fears and sorrows, and she never told me hers, although I tried to get her to open up to me this way.
I wonder why my mom never shared her more vulnerable side. Was it due to my dad’s temper towards us, as children? Did she fear that with his temper being so bad, we might get angry in response to our hurt towards our dad? Was it because she had been terribly sick when I was a toddler, and she developed fear? My mother told me the only two subjects she hated were psychology and poetry, subjects that require a person to dig deeply into her deepest thoughts and feelings. I don’t know why, but we always kept the relationship at the surface. I guess this made her feel safe, and I had to respect her need. I had to accept my mom the way she was, because I knew that was the best way to love and honor her. I was glad my mom felt I loved her by serving her. With all that I did to upset her, I am so glad I did that right and did please her that way.
My sorrow lasted so long after my mom’s death, I finally found a Christian counselor to talk and pray with me. I was ashamed of my anger, because my mom never yelled at me, never hit me and the two times I do remember her spanking me, I quietly giggled, because it did not hurt. She was not an abusive mom at all.
Our clash of different personalities and languages of love left me feeling so empty. But my mom’s inability to share her heart or to let me share what hurt me, and her inability to apologize hurt me deeply. My three, logical siblings did not seem to have these struggles. Perhaps they could better accept my mom’s many services to us as love, and thus they felt content. I probably envied their ease in this way (after her death). I was always the “too emotional one,” in our home, or “the clingy one,” (since I so loved hugs and pats on the back). I talked and talked to my gracious counselor. We prayed, and I sought God’s comfort when I was alone.
Long suppressed feelings came to the surface, and over time, something amazing happened. I began to remember my relationship with my mom without tears. I began to remember that baby book and school journal my mom kept. I remembered her amazing patience in teaching me how to drive. I actually bragged about her incredible daring in making some of the most adventurous desserts I have ever eaten. I have never met another person who made such fun desserts.
God was healing me. I did have scars from my childhood, due to this mismatch of my needs and mom’s inability to meet them. Some of my teachers were saddened by the bad friendships I made in my teens and young adult years. Not knowing how to relate well to healthy women, I sometimes allowed cold and mean gals to be my friend, and some of them used me and mistreated me. I did manage to have good friends too, although they would express concern about the other friends I had (the mean ones). I am actually still learning when to walk away from mean gals! I hate to ever give up on a relationship, and I am quick to forgive. But some gals will have envy or anger issues where they insult and accuse their friends. I am learning to step away from those broken relationships. But I am thankful to say I am mostly healed, and my friendships are healthy and supportive.
It does seem strange that my broken relationship with my mom affected relationships outside our home, but our hearts “know love,” and whatever we grow up with becomes comfortable to us, even if it is not good for us. Yet God can change what feels familiar to us and teach us to open up to safe, kind and supportive friends. God did this for me as I healed from my broken mother-daughter relationship. I know my mom loved me, and I loved her. We will meet again in heaven, where both of us will be fully healed and neither of us will have wounds.