Dear Momma,

I have become the mother I needed because you never were. I had to grow her, build her, carve her out of the pieces you shattered. And the saddest part? You will never understand that. You can’t remove you from you. Your trauma is a parasite—you let it live in you, and then you fed it with your children. You pushed your pain into me like it was my inheritance. But I am done. I am DONE being the dumping ground for wounds you never faced. I learned everything about motherhood by watching what NOT to be. Because through being a mother myself, I realized my daughter deserves NONE of what you gave me. Not your rage. Not your bitterness. Not your bruises— the ones on the skin and the ones that never showed. You were broken, and instead of fixing yourself, you weaponized the pieces. You turned your sharp edges into hands. Into words. Into every moment that carved into me. You could’ve tried. You could’ve healed. But you refused. You left your wounds open and expected me to bleed for them. And that day—the day you said “Here it is, go do it”— I realized something: You didn’t care if I lived. You didn’t care if I died. You just wanted quiet. You wanted a story to tell. You wanted to be the victim in your own children’s