My daughter has chosen silence. She has disabled the tracker on her iPhone, retreating to her father’s home, harboring deep resentment towards me. And frankly, she’s justified. I’ve let her down in ways I can never fully amend. If this situation doesn’t improve, it will stand as my greatest failure as a parent.
I cannot force my way back into her life. As a wise figure once said, “mother don’t smother.” At times, I’ve overstepped, trying to compensate for my past mistakes. Yet, it’s crucial to respect our children’s individuality, giving them the space they request and honoring their boundaries.
Many parents in recovery face the difficult task of repairing the damage that addiction has inflicted on their relationships with their children. And yes, I place the blame squarely on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol. I would never consciously choose to ignore or abandon her. I vividly recall the heart-wrenching moments when her voice would come through the phone, calling out, “Mommyyyyyyyy!” Her cries were both gut-wrenching and oddly reassuring. She misses me, she craves my love—but I was unable to be present.
I received warnings: if I didn’t change my ways, I would lose my daughter. My initial reaction was defensive; who were they to judge my relationship with her? We had a bond that felt unbreakable. I now see how naive and arrogant I was.
Now, I wait for her return, consumed by regret and longing. Everyone always described her as extraordinary—intelligent, intuitive, a spiritually gifted child with a significant purpose. She was always so lively, so enchanting. Born at home on New Year’s Day, her arrival seemed destined.
There’s an unmistakable bond that comes with your own child. I remember vividly the moment she was born, her tiny face still tinged with blue, her wide, dark eyes staring back at me. “Little alien baby,” her father remarked, and I couldn’t help but agree. There was an unspoken understanding that she was sent to us for a purpose greater than we could comprehend.
Her stories of past lives captivated us, from yellow-haired people in another realm to her existence as a queen’s daughter in ancient Egypt. Her vivid imagination often left us in awe, making it hard not to believe her tales.
During my escapades, my heart would ache for her. I’d sit with a drink in hand, tears streaming down my face, thinking I needed to get sober for her sake. I convinced myself that if I could just get my act together, everything would be alright. “I’ll do it after the next festival,” I would promise myself, but time slipped away, stealing precious moments from her childhood.
I can never reclaim that lost time. I hold onto the memories of her clinging to me, her sweet breath on my neck as she fell asleep. Our shared laughter and songs are now bittersweet echoes of what once was. I wish I could turn back time and redo everything, but I fear it may already be too late.
As she navigates her teenage years, the disdain she feels for me intertwines with the pain I’ve caused, leaving us both at this crossroads. “You only have a year sober,” she told me recently. “That doesn’t fix anything.” Since then, silence has filled the space between us.
I want her to know I’m here, patiently waiting. I understand the hurt that festers in the heart. I’ve experienced similar feelings towards my parents, and I know how heavy that burden can be. We must find a way to break the cycle of unforgiveness.
While I’ve learned from many wise souls, she remains my greatest teacher. I see the light within her—an essence that shines as brightly as that of the great leaders and enlightened beings. If I had known better, I would have acted differently. Perhaps, our purpose in this life is to learn the art of forgiveness.
I refuse to miss another moment with you, my dear daughter. I’ll wait in humility and repentance. I love you unconditionally. I would traverse any obstacle, face any hardship, to earn the chance to be your mother again in this lifetime.
“I’m comin’ home, I’m comin’ home. Tell the world I’m comin’ home. Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday…” — P. Diddy