Not every breakthrough feels like relief. Sometimes it feels like clarity mixed with grief, and that’s a part people don’t talk about enough.

I had a session with my mom today. For the first time, I can say it actually went well. It wasn’t surface-level or forced. It was a real conversation, with real effort and real moments where it felt like we were actually hearing each other. And that matters more than I can fully explain.

I’m grateful she came. I really am. That alone said a lot. The fact that she showed up and opened up—that’s the version of her I’ve always wanted. The one who leans in instead of pulling away. The one who tries. And for the first time, I saw that.

But what I didn’t expect was how much it would open up.

During that conversation, I learned something that hit deeper than I was ready for. My mom didn’t grow up with affection. She wasn’t held. She wasn’t shown love in the way I’ve spent most of my life craving from her.

And suddenly, things started to make sense in a way that honestly hurt more than not understanding at all.

Because it means it didn’t start with me.

The distance. The lack of softness. The absence of the kind of love I’ve always needed from her—it was there long before I was. And while that answers questions I’ve had for years, it also leaves me sitting in a different kind of reality.

Understanding doesn’t erase the impact.

I can see her differently now. I can have compassion for where she came from. I can understand why she shows up the way she does. But that doesn’t suddenly take away what it felt like growing up needing something that wasn’t there in the way I needed it.

Both things exist at the same time.

I can understand her, and still feel the weight of what I didn’t receive.

And if I’m being honest, I can also see how it didn’t just stop with her. I can see how it showed up in me—in the way I’ve loved my own kids, and in the ways I may not have always given them the kind of affection they deserved either.

That realization is heavy in a way that’s hard to fully explain.

Because now I’m not just processing what I didn’t get. I’m also processing what I may not have given. And that’s a different kind of pain. It’s quieter, but it sits deeper. It forces you to reflect in a way that’s uncomfortable, because it’s no longer just about what happened to you—it’s about what may have carried through you.

And then there was something else.

Something I’ve always known, but never really understood.

My dad slept with my aunt—my mom’s sister. Even saying that out loud still feels wrong. For most of my life, I couldn’t understand how my mom stayed close to her after that. I couldn’t understand how she could forgive something like that, or continue a relationship with someone who betrayed her in that way.

It never made sense to me.

But today, she explained it. She let me into her perspective—her way of surviving something like that. And for the first time, I understood it.

Not agreed with it. Not something I think I could ever do.

But I understood it.

And somehow, that understanding didn’t make things lighter. It made them heavier.

Because when you understand something like that, you stop seeing things in black and white. You stop labeling things as simply right or wrong, and you start seeing the layers underneath—the pain, the history, the survival behind someone’s choices.

And once you see it that way, you can’t unsee it.

Understanding is complicated, because it doesn’t always bring closure. Sometimes it just shows you how deep everything really goes—how much someone carried, how much they normalized, and how much they learned to accept because they had to.

And now I’m sitting here realizing something I didn’t expect. The version of my mom I’ve been waiting for—the relationship I’ve held onto and hoped for—isn’t exactly what I’m going to get. Not because she doesn’t care, but because she can only meet me from what she knows and what she lived.

And that doesn’t always reach where I am.

That realization is hard to sit with, because it shifts everything. It’s not about asking for too much. It’s about understanding that what I needed and what she was able to give were never fully aligned.

And that’s where the grief comes in.

There’s a quiet grief in letting go of what you hoped for. There’s grief in accepting what is. And there’s grief in recognizing that even when something makes sense, it doesn’t mean it feels okay.

But there’s also something else happening at the same time.

There’s awareness.

And that awareness is breaking something open in me while also starting to heal something at the same time. It’s forcing me to see things clearly, even when that clarity is uncomfortable.

Because the truth is, this isn’t just about understanding her. It’s about understanding what that means for me moving forward.

It means learning how to accept her as she is, while also being honest about what I still need. It means figuring out where to hold on and where to create space. It means recognizing that love doesn’t always look the way you expected it to, and deciding what you’re willing to carry forward.

I’m trying to sit in both—the understanding and the ache.

Because if I’m being completely honest, the only thing I really wanted today was a hug. A real one. The kind that says everything without needing words. The kind that makes you feel like, for a second, everything you’ve been carrying can just drop.

And it didn’t happen.

Maybe she didn’t think of it. Maybe she didn’t know I needed it. Maybe she doesn’t even know how to give that kind of affection. Maybe she needed it just as much as I did… or maybe not.

But I felt the space where it should have been.

And that feeling stayed with me.

So now I’m here, sitting with all of it. Grateful for the progress. Proud of the conversation. Understanding more than I ever have before.

And still… a little heartbroken.

Because growth doesn’t always feel good. Sometimes it feels like this—like clarity and grief sitting in the same space, both true at the same time.

~Tj🩷