My broken family

I grew up in a broken family, long before I even understood what that meant. I never knew what it was like to feel a mother’s love. I didn’t grow up with hugs, encouragement, or the soft kind of attention children dream about. For many years, I honestly believed all families were like mine—cold, distant, without emotion or affection. I thought that was normal.

My mother had her own battles. She came into her forties already carrying the weight of a failed marriage and the responsibility of raising children who came with their own challenges. One of them, my half-brother, was not easy for her to handle. She struggled with him, and she struggled with herself.

She wasn’t prepared for any of it. She was overwhelmed, tired, and trying to rebuild her life while still raising us. And the truth is, she didn’t know how to communicate. She wasn’t emotionally intelligent, and she didn’t have the tools to show love or understanding. So instead of warmth, we grew up with tension. Instead of guidance, we grew up figuring things out on our own.

Looking back now, I can see how her pain shaped her. But as a child, all I could feel was the absence—the empty space where a mother’s love should have been.