The Space Between Us
“Hey mom! Are you available for a chat Saturday to tell me my birth story?” This was gonna be our second conversation and I was excited to start getting questions answered, especially because the first conversation we had went so well.
She responds, “Before we go any further, we need to talk about the elephant in the room: the horrible allegations you made online.”
I’m actually grateful to hear these words because this is exactly what I desired to bring up too. ”I agree!” I say, “We also need to talk about the other elephant in the room—how I asked you about this two years ago, and instead of answering, you blocked me.”
Let’s rewind. It’s November 21, 2022… I remember the day clearly because it was the day before my 42nd bearthday, and the day my mother ended our connection.
A few months later I discovered what I believed was proof of my mother’s abuse. A forensic interview with my older sister detailing her playing with anatomically correct dolls, reenacting scenes that no 18 month old should understand. The first page made it clear what my biological father had done, and that wasn’t new news to me. But on the second page a small paragraph detailed something else. Something with a female doll WAS new news to me. Something that shattered me.
I didn’t want to believe what I was reading, and it was right there. I immediately asked my mother about it, needing answers. Needing her. Instead of answering, she disappeared. Blocked me on everything.
My mind spiraled into the darkest places. I pieced together a lifetime of feeling unsafe around her, the way sexual violence rippled through our family like a curse, the betrayals from women who were supposed to love me. The repeated devouring mother cycle from my spiritual mentor. It all finally made sense.
And then, the collapse. Depression. Isolation. Many of the people I turned to met me with dismissive platitudes—Just forgive. Let it go. She did the best she could. But how could I forgive what felt like the deepest betrayal of my life?
In the midst of it all, I had two exorcisms… that’s a whole other blog! One, guided, sort of. It was unexpected and thankfully there were some skilled individuals who got me through the first night. The other I was alone for eight hours straight, clawing through my own darkness.
I saw it all as confirmation of what I’d discovered. Of what I was up against. My mother had already distanced herself from me before I even found the paperwork, calling me a “witch hunter,” telling me to stop “chasing demons” and leave the past alone. Then, the documents. Then, the exorcisms. Then, the training I co-ran, mirroring my own family dynamic like some cruel cosmic joke and ending with my mentor attempting a whole character and career assassination.
The depth of healing I did in that time? Unfathomable. I had asked my Soul to show me the Spiritual war we were in, and what I experienced inside of me was that it is a war for the control of our Soul’s energy. The traumas serve as entry points for lies and negative energies to start circulating, until we are living in agreement with the lie.
It was a time of being shook to my core and questioning everything I believed. No family. No mentor. Fewer friends than when I started. In unchartered territory… but I could FEEL I was onto something. I pulled my energy back. Rearranged my friendships, my business, my entire world. I became almost reclusive—licking my wounds, incubating something new. I knew holding onto the anger and bitterness forever was not the answer, and at the same time, “Who am I without this anger to protect me?”
Fast forward to now and my mother and I are finally speaking again. Finally addressing the silence, the accusations. She tells me she didn’t do it. I listen. Partly in shock, partly needing her to get it all out before I process it.
We sat in silence for a few moments as I did my best to gather a sentence. I feel myself begin to tremble, my lips quivering, eyes dropping, and tears streaming down my face as I explained to her how much it hurt—spending over two years without a mother, a father, or any family. How I fell into the darkest parts of myself, longing to be held, and she kept her distance all the while knowing a conversation could have cleared it up.
She said she felt me during this time too, felt my pain. Assured me she loved me and had no malicious intent.
Perhaps the past desperate Kelly would have clung to that scrap of love and finally felt validated, but I didn’t feel validated at all. I felt dismissed. “How could you watch me suffer and not say anything? How could you watch me go through my breakdown and keep this from me? A conversation could have fixed this. I really don’t understand.”
I didn’t try to rescue her from my pain this time. I needed her to feel me as human, as her daughter. I pressed in more, “Mom, if my daughter ever accused me the things I accused you of, clearly laid out her thoughts and feelings showing how she came to that conclusion, AND I knew she, her siblings, nieces and nephews, and generations before her all experiences sexual trauma, then I’d tell her it’s not far fetched to see how she came up with this conclusion and do my best to make things clear. Why did you go silent and block me? Why did you hide? Why did you not fight for me?”
In my mind I’m asking, “Is this some manipulation? Some twisted game? Does she enjoy watching me be in pain? Or is she telling the truth?”
She spoke about realizing she’s lived her life in a dissociative state, shared a few trauma stories, and about having many memory gaps. And I understand that. I’ve lived that. I’ve had to work to bring myself back into my body, to untangle the trauma, and reparent myself.
I press more, “Mom, I resent you the email and court documents before this conversation. Why didn’t you read it? I’m also concerned that your retelling of the story is much different than what I experienced. What I’d like to do is have us go over the emails again, because I made decisions based off the conversations we had via email, and you’re talking about phone conversations we never had.”
She seems genuinely concerned that her memory is that off and I press in a little more. “Mom, I am here for reconciliation, to do the work with you to get us healthy. AND my past actions were motivated because I did not feel loved, safe, or appreciated by you. I am seeing some deeper shadow patterns here that I feel would be important to discuss. Are you alright with me sending you these emails to get our stories aligned and go from there?”
We agree to go over the emails and go from there. So here we are sitting in the unknown. I haven’t looked up or sent the old emails yet, and in my heart and mind I’ve already believed the worst and forgiven the unforgivable. I don’t even care what the truth is at this point, as long as we’re both on the path to it. I truly am better off than when I started and feel the spaciousness in me to hold space for my mom and I to discover our truth together.
What’s the most significant change for me? I no longer need to rescue my mom from her consequence or from how I feel. The feelings lead to the healing, and I’m now in the front seat of the emotional roller coaster, hands up, smile on my face, enjoying my ability to alchemize any and all emotions.
Maybe that’s why we needed the distance. So I could die to the old version of myself that needed her to be something, or for her to accept me, for me to feel alright; I now come to her human to human discovering how to create a new relationship that’s based on a pursuit of love and truth.
