I didn’t know this was going to be a blog post when I sat down and started ranting.
Honestly, I was just talking.
I had a thought, and then another thought came, and before I knew it, I was sitting here having one of those conversations with myself where you realize you might actually be working through something in real time.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I thought:
They did the best they could with what they had.
And I’m going to be honest with you…
I’m still figuring out what the hell that means for me.
Because I’m sitting here thinking about my mother.
And I can’t say my mother was the world’s worst mother.
I can’t say that.
Because that’s not true.
My mama always made sure we had good Christmases. She always made sure we had things. They may not have been name brand. They may not have been the newest thing everybody else had.
But we had something.
And honestly, I’m a lot like my mama in that way.
If something’s popular, I don’t mind finding the knockoff.
Okay?
I will find that shit.
It might not have the name on it, but baby, I got it.
And that’s my mama too.
So no, I can’t sit here and tell you that my mother didn’t love me.
I can’t tell you that she never showed up for me.
Because that’s not the whole story.
But I also can’t sit here and pretend there aren’t things I’m hurt about.
There are.
There are things I wish my mother had done differently.
There are things I wish somebody had fought for me about.
I wish somebody had stood up for me.
I wish somebody had looked at me sometimes and said, No. We’re not going to let this happen to her.
And I didn’t always feel like I had that.
And I think that’s part of why I fight so hard now.
Because I know what it feels like when nobody is fighting hard enough for you.
So I’ve spent a lot of my life fighting.
For myself.
For my children.
For what I believe is right.
For what I believe we deserve.
And maybe some of that strength came from having to become the person I needed somebody else to be for me.
I don’t know.
I’m still figuring that part out.
But here’s where life gets really strange.
My mother has cancer now.
Cervical cancer.
And she’s in a lot of pain.
And before I found out that my mother had cancer, I wasn’t even speaking to her.
That’s hard for me to say.
Because there are reasons I wasn’t speaking to her.
There are things that happened.
There are things I was angry about.
And I don’t want to sit here and tell you that those things don’t matter.
They do.
But now I’m sitting here thinking about my mother in that hospital.
And I’m thinking…
That’s my mama.
You know?
That’s still my mama.
And I don’t know how much time she has.
And I don’t know how much time I have with her.
And I don’t want to spend whatever time we have left carrying every single thing that has ever hurt me like it’s something I have to keep proving.
Because what good is that going to do me?
What good is it going to do her?
What good is it going to do either one of us?
And I’m not saying forgive everything and pretend everything was okay.
I’m not saying that.
I’m not saying you have to call somebody who hurt you and suddenly act like y’all are best friends.
I’m not saying that at all.
I’m saying…
What if knowing they did the best they could with what they had gives us permission to carry the hurt differently?
Because that’s where my mind keeps going.
The Ten of Wands keeps coming to me.
Y’all know I talk about the Ten of Wands a lot.
And usually we say, Put the damn burdens down.
And I’m like…
Okay.
But if it was that easy, wouldn’t I have already done that?
Wouldn’t you?
If you could just throw that shit down, you probably would have.
Some of us have been carrying the same shit for years.
And I’ve started looking at the Ten of Wands a little differently.
I think about the women over in Africa who carry these heavy baskets on their heads.
Now, I’m not going to sit here and pretend those baskets aren’t heavy.
Because they are.
But think about what happens when you carry something by the handle in your hand versus when you learn how to balance that same weight on your head.
The weight didn’t disappear.
You didn’t magically make the basket lighter.
You just learned how to distribute the weight differently.
And baby…
I think that’s the message.
Maybe some of these burdens aren’t going to disappear just because we finally understand where they came from.
Maybe some things happened that we’re never going to be able to change.
Maybe somebody should have shown up.
Maybe somebody should have protected you.
Maybe somebody should have apologized.
Maybe somebody should have loved you better.
Maybe somebody should have fought for you.
And maybe they didn’t.
But does that mean you have to carry that shit in your hands for the rest of your life?
I don’t know.
I’m asking myself that right now.
Because I’m tired.
And I’m realizing that there’s a difference between saying:
“What happened to me didn’t hurt.”
and saying:
“What happened to me doesn’t have to keep hurting me in the same way.”
Those are two very different things.
My mother had her own shit too.
And I know that.
I know my mother didn’t come from some perfect, loving, nurturing background.
She had her own experiences.
Her own wounds.
Her own disappointments.
Her own things she probably never got to work through.
And maybe…
just maybe…
she really did do the best she could with what she had.
That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have done better.
It doesn’t mean I wasn’t deserving of better.
It doesn’t mean I don’t have every right to feel what I feel.
But maybe I don’t have to keep holding her accountable in my heart every single day for not being the mother I needed her to be.
Because at some point…
what am I doing to myself?
And that’s where this whole No More Playing Small thing starts hitting me differently.
Because maybe playing small isn’t just hiding your gifts.
Maybe playing small is also allowing old pain to take up so much room inside of you that there’s no room left for anything new.
No room for joy.
No room for forgiveness.
No room for compassion.
No room for another version of the story.
And I’m not saying I have figured this out.
Hell no.
I’m sitting here figuring this out with you.
I’m writing this because I need to hear it too.
I’m my first client.
Before I tell you that you can release something, I need to know that I believe I can release something.
Before I tell you that you can put the burden down, I need to figure out how I’m going to put mine down.
And maybe putting it down doesn’t mean forgetting.
Maybe it means changing how you carry it.
Because I could stay angry.
I could.
I have reasons.
I could sit here and think about the ways my mother has shown up for my sister and her family.
I could think about the times I’ve felt like me and my children were left to figure shit out.
I could think about things that happened that still piss me off.
And I could hold all of that.
I could.
But then I think about my mother being in that hospital.
And I think about how scared she probably is.
And I think about how maybe there’s a part of her that is tired.
Maybe there’s a part of her that wants to give up.
And selfishly?
I want her to hold on.
Because what the hell are you letting go for?
Whatever is on the other side is going to be there when you get there.
You don’t have to rush.
And I know that sounds selfish.
Maybe it is.
But she’s my mama.
My mama.
And if something happens to her, I’m going to need a minute.
I’m going to need more than a minute.
Because regardless of everything…
she’s my mother.
And nobody else in this world knows me in the exact way that she does.
And maybe that’s the part I’m finally making room for.
Not forgetting the hurt.
Not pretending I didn’t need more.
Not rewriting my childhood.
Just making room for the whole damn story.
My mother loved me.
My mother hurt me.
My mother provided for me.
My mother disappointed me.
My mother had limitations.
My mother had her own wounds.
And I have mine.
All of it can be true.
And maybe that’s what healing actually looks like sometimes.
Not deciding which version is the real one.
But being big enough to hold all of them.
So if you’re sitting somewhere right now thinking about your own mother…
or your father…
or a sibling…
or somebody who hurt you…
and you’re thinking, “But they did the best they could with what they had…”
I just want to remind you:
That sentence does not require you to say that what happened was okay.
It doesn’t require you to stop being angry.
It doesn’t require reconciliation.
It doesn’t require you to forget.
Maybe it’s simply an invitation to ask yourself:
“Can I carry this differently?”
Because maybe the burden doesn’t have to disappear today.
Maybe you just need to move it.
Maybe you need to redistribute the weight.
Maybe you need to stop carrying it in the hand that has been tired for years and learn how to balance it somewhere else.
I don’t know.
I’m still learning.
But I’m starting to think…
maybe that’s the sovereign shift.
Maybe No More Playing Small isn’t just about becoming bigger.
Maybe it’s about becoming spacious enough to hold your whole story without letting the hardest parts of it become the whole story.
And that’s where I’m sitting today.
Right here.
With you.
Still figuring it out.
✨✨✨✨✨
Still sitting with this?
Maybe something in this story stirred something up for you.
Maybe you’re thinking about your mother. Your father. A sibling. Someone you loved. Someone who hurt you. Or maybe you’re thinking about yourself.
You don’t have to figure it all out today.
I created a small reflection and journaling companion to help you sit with what came up—and begin exploring what it might look like to carry it differently.
Inside, you’ll be invited to look at what you’re carrying, hold space for the truth that two things can be true, redistribute the weight, and most importantly, ask yourself:
What do my children need my hands for?
Because sometimes the work isn’t about throwing the basket away.
Sometimes it’s about learning how to carry it differently.
They Did the Best They Could With What They Had
A Reflection & Journaling Companion
A 7-page guided reflection journal for only $2.22
Download Your Copy: Here