MY MOTHER NEVER HUGGED ME.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about trauma, it’s that it doesn’t always show up how you expect. Sometimes, it’s not a scream—it’s a silence. It’s a tight chest. It’s a smile that feels like a lie. And for me, that silence started with my mother.

She was chaos in a human form. Sharp. Sarcastic. Unreadable. Our relationship wasn’t loving or tender—it was transactional. Conditional. Scary. Being around her felt like holding onto a hot burner. There was no safety in her presence, and there was definitely no comfort in her touch.

All I ever wanted was a hug.
Not a side hug. Not a quick pat on the shoulder.
A real hug. One where I could just let go.
But I never got that.

Growing up, I’d get grounded for things I didn’t understand. Locked away in my room. Left alone with my thoughts. I’d end up self-harming just to feel something different than the loneliness. My mother never cared. Her attention always lived elsewhere—usually chasing men, taking me and my brother through random apartment buildings while she wore fishnets and stripper heels.

I watched her break my little brother. I saw her make him beg on his knees just for love or approval. I had to be the one to lift him off the floor, look him in the eyes, and say, “She wants this from you. Don’t give it to her.” He was slower emotionally. I grew up fast. Too fast. I had to. No one was coming to save us.

And even though he was her favorite—she still hurt him too.

She told me I wasn’t wanted.
She told me I should’ve been a blowjob.
That was her joke. A running gag in our house.
But when I was suicidal, it didn’t feel like a joke.
It felt like a curse I couldn’t shake.

We moved constantly. I never had a home. Not in a physical space. Not in my own brain. Not even in my own body. And when she passed from cancer, I asked her—just once—to smile. She said she was tired. Tired of living. I wanted to ask her, what made you so angry? What would’ve happened if you just tried—really tried—to live for your kids?

I’ll never get that answer.

Now, as an adult, I see how she shaped the worst parts of me. The clinginess. The fear of being alone. The endless search for men to make me feel something. I can’t sit with myself. My mind is a birdcage full of screaming birds. I flinch at touch. I crave connection but push it away when it comes too close.

And the darkest part? I became her in my last relationship.
I controlled. I manipulated. I withheld.
I became the same storm I was raised in.

But now I see it. I hold space for the version of my brother I couldn’t protect. I forgive myself for the behaviors I learned from a woman who never gave me love, only lessons wrapped in pain.

This post isn’t about healing, because I’m still in it.
It’s about truth.
It’s about holding the mirror up and saying—this is where it came from.
This is the wound I’ve been dressing with distractions.
And maybe you’ve got one too.

But I’ll tell you this:

I may never get the hug I needed.
But I’m learning how to hold myself now.

And I won’t pass this pain down any further.