I thank God for Covid, terrible as it was, I never would’ve been forced to live with my parents again. The house I grew up in, my mothers house, was featured in Sheridan Road magazine. It was beautiful, but I hated it. The Birger Juell floors in our kitchen were so clean that you could eat off of them. The landscapers were at our house twice a week, and so was our cleaning lady. There wasn’t a blade of grass out of place, nor a crumb, nor a speck of dust to be found. I used to eat breakfast in my dad’s fur lined coat, or just a fuzzy heap of sweatshirts and blankets, because the temperature was always too cold for me.

The magazine mentioned all the pretty details, and the high-tech features in our home, but they failed to mention that the walls were screaming. And If they weren’t screaming they were nitpicking, or brooding, or silently resentful — but one thing remained consistent throughout — the silence of my dad who tuned my mother out like she didnt exist.

Everyone in my family kinda kept to themselves. My dad was playing golf in the basement, and my mom was in the living room, drinking tequila in a baccarat glass filled to the top with one giant ice cube. Or in a coffee mug with just some regular ice cubes — -I was in the bathroom, making myself throw up after dinner — which I kept a secret for years. And I was so good at hiding it that I think I may have convinced myself it didn’t exist.

I vividly remember sitting in the basement, devastated, just staring at my socks. Because I had been away for college, and then New York, studying to be a social worker, and we learned how paramount it is to practice non-judgement — and I was walking around thinking I was doing a fantastic job, thinking I was some sort of “master non-judger.” But there I was, sitting with the same resentment, the same anger I had before I left, mainly towards my mother.

I used to wish my mom would sail away on a Carnival cruise, never to return again, which isn’t entirely true. I used to think about her dying, which I kept a secret because it was so dark. And I felt guilty about even having that thought in the first place.

That night in the basement was such a pivotal moment. It clicked that, “this is in me”, it’s mine, and it’s not on my mother to heal it. I called my friend Kate, who was the most spiritual person I knew at the time. Who said to me, “spiritually speaking, your soul chose your parents before it came into this life”, because your parents’ weird dysfunction is the perfect formula to elevate your soul, something along the lines of that… Jesus, Kate, as ridiculous as that sounds, I needed to do something, anything to get rid of the heavy, stifling resentment inside of me. And just by adopting that belief, I was no longer a victim, and I liked that.

As a child I remember sitting in the back of my mom’s Lexus, begging her to play “Ain’t Nobody” by Chaka Khan, on repeat. She was always playing soul music, or “smooooth jazz WNBA 95.5”. The gratitude I found for my mother just by framing it as “my choice” was transformative. Just by searching for the benefits within a relationship, (even in the most noxious ones), we’ll find ‘em.’ I’m not saying this is the main reason, but my continued love for R&B/Soul has continuously set me apart from the “other white people” at weddings. Admittedly, I love when the band is surprised I know the words to that Carl Carlton song from 1981 — I learned it from my momma. But ultimately, I chose my mother to strengthen my capacity to love, to deepen my understanding of the human condition, forgiveness, and to discover the power of self-healing.

As a therapist, my clients will sometimes say to me, “I don’t know how to get to a place where I can forgive”. Or, “I don’t want to accept it, because it means the person who hurt me gets a free pass, it’s like it doesn’t count.” And with that, we will always remain a victim, because the apology, or the acknowledgement we’re looking for has to come from that person. And if the person we’re upset with is responsible for our healing, we need something from them, and we’re powerless to what they do or don’t do.

Acceptance doesn’t mean you have to tolerate that person in your life, you don’t even have to see or speak to that person again, but it is entirely possible to heal the negative energy we have towards the person who hurt us. It will happen the moment we take responsibility for the hurt within us, claiming our power.

In our editing groups, Maureen asked me, what would you say about your Mom if you weren’t being a therapist, or being nice, or being a good daughter? I’d say she was a crazy narcissistic “see you next Tuesday” who made my life a living hell. Where the F were you?! How could you have been so cruel?! And how is that your best?! I’m angry, I’m angry at you, I’m angry about the persistent fear and worry your actions left me with. I’m angry I have to work harder to feel at peace with myself in the world, and in the relationships that are important to me. I remember being at that place, and it’s a natural part of the process of healing. But I’m happy to say it feels like a distant memory now.

Re-parenting is an “industry term” we use in counseling. It’s a process where we work with the inner-child to validate, tend to the hurt, and release the burden we’ve been holding. There’s more to this process, but basically, I was able to “be my own mother,” and give myself what I needed at the time. We can actually do so much for ourselves, and it’s incredibly empowering.

I was sitting with my boyfriend in Florida by the water, and I mentioned how much I yearn to be the kind of mom who cuts the crust off sandwiches, and puts “I love you notes” inside a lunch box — which I’m sure would be taken for granted unless you went without. It’s a blessing my mother gave me. Even though I felt so unnurtured, I grew up to be someone who loves to care for and nurture other people.

So with that, and because I am tired of editing this, I say with sincerity, thank you Mom.