Mother’s Day came this year and I was in a sour mood. I couldn’t explain it—I blamed it on perimenopause. It’s Tuesday now, two days after the event. Last night, I finally figured it out.
I didn’t deem myself worthy of a celebration. Deep down, I don’t really think much of myself as a mother. It’s mommy guilt all over again.
This essay is about how I’m still trying to understand where that guilt is coming from.
Maybe the guilt I feel is not a signal that I’ve done something wrong. Do you notice that we feel guilt most deeply around what we care about most? Psychology texts say that guilt can point to something we value being under threat. But why, and how so?
Some context: I was in an enmeshed, emotionally abusive relationship with my late father. He had undiagnosed Narcissistic Personality Disorder and was also, I suspect, bipolar. Not sugar-coating it—he was not father-of-the-year material.
I got him out of my system when I graduated and started earning my own keep. Then I got married. Now, my chosen family—the one I made, not the one I was born into—is the best support system I have.
When I was 14, I developed anorexia because of the emotional strain. I relapsed when I was 37. But with therapy and support from my family, I’m okay now. Still, I always consider myself a recovering anorexic. From an addiction recovery perspective, living a life worth fighting for is a daily decision.
Back to the present: being a mom. I surmise that this guilt I carry is obscuring my gold. What I value most is being a good mom (a good parent), because I was deprived of that in my own childhood.
Unlike my father, my mother wasn’t emotionally abusive—she just wasn’t very available. Since I was the eldest and had a strong personality, she thought she needed to focus on protecting my younger siblings instead. So, she cut me loose. And like most children of Gen X, she let me go. “My daughter is strong; she can deal with it.”
She didn’t protect me from him. And now, I want to protect my children from all kinds of ills.
There are a few things that nag at me, however.
For instance, my mandate not having air conditioning in the house. It’s a practical, frugal decision, and my husband supports it. (I’ve written another essay about that.) The kids are okay—the rooms are properly ventilated and they seem to manage. But still, a voice inside screams and shouts: You’re depriving them of comfort. And because of that, I feel miserable. Like I don’t deserve any mother-praise accolades.
Another sore spot: I wasn’t able to attend my daughter’s graduation in full because my mornings are unpredictable. I struggle with insomnia as I transition into menopause, and I can’t always tell when I’ll wake up. So I asked my husband to go in my place, and he was present for her.
My daughter said she didn’t mind—she didn’t even think it was a big deal. In reality, she’s okay. In reality, my husband is familiar with my symptoms (he already handles the kids’ morning commute to school). Still… guilty, guilty, guilty.
These two stormy petrels aside, I still insist that I’m the kind of mom who wants to repair generational wounds. I want to give my kids the presence, love, and emotional attunement I was denied.
I question this guilt with the fierceness of someone who observes her thoughts.
Maybe that guilt is saying something deeper. Maybe it’s saying:
“I want to do this well. I want to matter in my children’s lives in the best way I know how.”
Looking at it more closely, the choices I make every day show that I am trying. I made my work schedule flexible and part-time so I could be around as they grow through puberty and adolescence (they’re teens now). In their early childhood, I was a full-time mom. I only started working (tentatively) when my youngest was eight.
That’s radical, isn’t it? That’s healing.
I’ve made my love visible. I’ve made it tangible. I am around. Not all the time, but enough of the time—in times that matter and don’t matter, in the small and big hours. I cut up pieces of me as offerings—willingly; no one told me to.
“Here’s my heart, anak, and my best efforts. How do you like the adobo? Your new pimple cream, smartwatch? Your edited essay on water pollution?”
Every day I try not to make my presence suffocating. Every day, like most of you, I try not to be a helicopter parent—or a blanked-out one, furtively doomscrolling TikTok during dinner.
And suddenly it occurred to me, while writing this piece: Actually—come to think of it—my kids seeing me choose myself, respect my aging female body, and honor my own needs… that’s good parenting. That’s healthy modeling.
I realize now, as I’m sitting here, that I’m being the parent my own parents weren’t.
They sacrificed too much, then layered guilt on top of it. They made us feel like we were the reason they suffered. That’s not okay.
Kids shouldn’t be guilt-tripped like that. I want to raise children who know their boundaries—who can say to the world, “This is me. This is what I need. Bug off—I don’t like you.” I want my kids not to be easily gaslit—because I was, every single day of my childhood with the family I was born into.
By example, if not by words, I was taught that love meant self-erasure. My father would say, “I sacrificed my life for you! You should be grateful and sing me praises!” My mother stayed silent, tolerating all his antics. This is not love. This is control wrapped in pain—layers and layers of pain that I only got to unravel as an adult.
I help people unravel these layers as a therapist now. It’s true what they say about psychotherapy as an act of reparenting.
Children should never feel responsible for a parent’s suffering. That kind of guilt is emotional manipulation.
And what I’m doing now? It’s the opposite.
I’m modeling healthy boundaries, self-respect, and emotional honesty. I’m showing my teens that it’s okay to have needs. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to ask for help. And most poignantly: love does not mean abandoning yourself.
I don’t ever want my kids to blurt out, “I didn’t ask to be born.”
From a psychology standpoint, what I went through with my father was enmeshment. Boundaries were blurred. His emotions had to be my emotions. When he was upset, I had to be upset. When he was happy, I had to match it. There were times in my life when I genuinely couldn’t separate my thoughts from his—my needs, my emotions, even my being.
I might not be the best cook, wake up for them at three in the morning to help them prepare for an interview, or drive them to school. But I will teach my kids how to be self-dependent. Set them a bit freer so they can develop autonomy.
I want my children to have a full sense of themselves (my needs not enmeshed or confused with theirs). I vow to honor my limits and theirs—healthy and clear boundaries. And—haha!—I see now, as I write this, I’m feeling less guilty.
Maybe I’m beginning to see I’m not such a gigantic failure as a mom. Wait, I do deserve some love on Mother’s Day.
And what did I get on the eleventh hour of the second Sunday of May?
A big hug from my daughter.
A funny meme shared from my son.
They do honor me.
I am treasured.
The featured image on this blog was AI-generated by me using free tools, namely ChatGPT, Canva, and Leonardo AI. I use these images to support my written content creatively and cost-effectively.
