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We were seated together on the small, plush loveseat in the therapist’s office. The room lacked windows, illuminated instead by soft table lamps, creating a cozy atmosphere that contrasted sharply with the starkness of fluorescent lights. Bookshelves filled with titles lined the wall opposite us, while her desk occupied another side of the room, and her well-worn armchair was positioned close to where I sat with my son, Lucas. The therapist, Julie, exuded warmth and understanding, and her evident care for Lucas brought a sense of calm to my frayed emotions.
I had been prepared for challenging therapy sessions and had embraced the process. Any form of healing often involves discomfort, and I was willing to endure that pain if it meant paving the way for a healthier future for both of us. Julie had a knack for asking probing questions that respected our experiences while encouraging deep reflection.
By this session, we had only met a few times—through several phone calls and a handful of emails—but she had already grasped our family dynamics, making me feel truly acknowledged. Treatment for Lucas’s ongoing mental health struggles had already started to yield positive changes. As we sat together, Julie leaned back in her chair and gently asked if I recognized how my frustration had manifested as resentment towards Lucas.
I sensed him shift beside me, and a familiar knot formed in my throat. I gave a slight nod, my eyes brimming with tears. I had uttered that painful word before in trusted spaces, with friends who cared for both me and Lucas, feeling a mix of shame and relief as it slipped from my lips. Yet, I had never heard another parent express such feelings about their child. Still, I could not deny that resentment had quietly taken root within me.
Before I nodded, a fleeting thought crossed my mind: to deny my feelings, to shield him from further hurt and rejection. What mother wants to admit that she resents her child? But I was there to confront the reality of our relationship, not to hide behind a facade of idealized hopes.
I wanted to clarify my feelings—to make it known that it was not Lucas as a person whom I resented. I longed to explain that my resentment was directed at the illness, the challenges, and the life circumstances that had impacted us all. Inside, I was desperate to assure him that my negative feelings weren’t aimed at him personally, but the words caught in my throat.
In that moment of panic, I realized that attempting to justify my emotions would only undermine his feelings. To ask him to understand my perspective would invalidate his own experience. So, I allowed the painful silence to linger, feeling the weight of my own shortcomings and fears. I dreaded the thought of looking into his beautiful eyes and seeing hurt reflected back at me. Shame crept into my thoughts, making me feel like a failure, as if accepting that shame might somehow atone for the hurt I had inadvertently directed at my teenage son.
He remained silent. I held my breath, bracing for anger or withdrawal, anticipating a bitter acknowledgment of “I knew it.” But no words came. His body relaxed, and the moment was simultaneously significant, overwhelming, and strangely simple.
He had already sensed it. He had felt my frustration over the years when it had manifested as anger directed at him. He had noticed my body turning away when he excitedly shared his latest interests, and I had cringed at the thought of another potential meltdown.
As I sat quietly beside him, those few moments stretched into what felt like an eternity. I could sense his tension dissipating; my admission appeared to grant him some measure of dignity and reassurance. My willingness to confront my difficult feelings seemed to restore something important between us.
So I remained, hands tightly clasped in my lap, facing forward as I willed my tears to cease, wanting to respect the gravity of the moment. A few tears managed to slip down my cheeks, but I refrained from wiping them away, not wanting to disrupt the energy in the room. I couldn’t allow my own emotions to overshadow the progress we were making during the session.
I focused on the bookshelf, watching the titles blur together into a colorful mix of self-help literature. I noticed him inhale deeply and stretch his legs as he prepared to leave. Yet, I stayed seated, overwhelmed with a torrent of emotions—anger at the illness that had strained our relationship, frustration with myself for not being more understanding, grief over the reality of driving home without him once more, and a deep yearning to embrace him and erase all his hurts.
But our session was complete. It was time for him to return to the unit, and I had to head home. I turned toward him, and he wrapped his arms around me.
“I love you, Mom,” he said, and his familiar words reminded me that a hurt relationship does not equate to a dead one. I knew he felt my love in return.
“I love you too, buddy,” I whispered into his shoulder before stepping back to compose myself, wipe my face, and follow Julie out through the maze of sterile hallways and heavy locked doors.
As we walked along in silence, I realized that the damage from my resentment had already been done. In that moment, the most valuable gift I could give him was acknowledging the hurt I had caused. Through this admission, through exposing my shame and vulnerability, we were beginning to move toward healing and freedom.
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