“Children learn more about what you are than what you teach.” ~web du bois
I was standing at the service bar waiting for my drink order to be ready. The steak fat scent clung to my apron and blew it into my bra, but the servers in my twenties around me were crying out about working on Mother’s Day…but I was working that night.
I barely slept as the restaurant closed the night before.
My 9 year old daughter said she wanted her to be dead.
And here I was caring about the side plates and pretending to drink refills. Instead, I broke everything at once, and it broke at once – and then plunged into an alley behind the kitchen where I could cry without making a scene.
It was a moment I knew: something had to change. It’s not for me. For her. Because if I stayed in this life, this marriage, this pattern, she would learn it too.
Until then, I thought I was protecting her. The screaming wasn’t directed at her, so I deceived myself, thinking it wasn’t too harmful. Being able to absorb blows. That love was a sacrifice. But kids don’t learn from what you say. They learn from what you model. And I was modeling my own betrayal.
Her stepfather’s cruelty was nothing new. Both attempted to patch the fatigue I brought into my bones over the cracks, both in daily life and denial. But do you see her crumble under the same pressure that I normalized? It shattered something inside me.
I married him because I saw a wonderful father for my daughter. I watched him go down to her level and play with her. They laugh together. Be foolish together. Become a child together.
Well, it was all okay and dandy when she was 3, 4, 5 years old, but at some point she started to surpass him. She matured while he sat stuck in his trauma. She was growing up to become a strong little woman.
He didn’t like it. So when I wasn’t around, he treated her assaulting her like a slave, a whipping boy, but crying out his tantrums. She is now a surrogate mother for a terrible child.
She was nine years old. She should have been thinking about art projects and bicycle rides, not death.
When I confront my husband about how he spoke to her, it only made things worse. So she asked me not to mention it again and let me know that she wouldn’t confide me any more. I hated making it happen. At the very moment I thought I was strong and standing up for my little girl, I was actually extending her punishment.
I stayed for stability, financial security, and for a misguided sense of loyalty. They were moments that provided her with a blueprint for her own suffering.
There is this story about a mother having to be a martial artist. Our suffering is noble and even necessary. But I won’t buy it anymore. Is it because what is good for a self-sacrifice mother if all children learn, is how to silence herself to survive?
It was not brave to leave. It was survival. I packed us up, found a small apartment, and started with a hell of debt, doubts and broken hearts. Not only from marriage, but from years I was cut off from myself. My daughter didn’t need a perfect mother. She needed something peaceful.
It wasn’t a clean break. I cried in the closet, called him at 2am, hating the longing. I felt like I had lost my heart. But I was beginning to find my voice. And slowly, she began to smile again. Her shoulders relaxed. We laughed like two girlfriends. We have reinvigorated the tradition of “Nyugling.” Days of night, I snuggled under the blanket in a big bowl of popcorn, watching stupid movies. Only us two. Just like it used to be. We knew we would be fine.
Healing wasn’t a suitable quote for epic epiphany or social media. It came with sobs in the middle of the night and coffee in the morning. Resist the urge to explain yourself to those who never get it. Learn to sit with discomfort instead of racing to fix it.
I had to revoke decades of things believing that silence was safe. If we don’t rock the boat, we won’t own. But we were already own dead. And otherwise, prejudice would only teach her how to hold her breath for longer.
I had to learn the idea that what is necessary is the same as being loved. It was noble to distort himself for its care and recognition.
I began to show her what boundaries looked like. I started apologizing when I made the wrong thing. I began to ask myself what I needed, not just what everyone else wanted from me.
He also had to let go of his changing fantasy. If I loved him better, gave him different communication, forgive him more quickly, and things improved, that fantasy had a chokehold on me for years. It is humble and liberating to realize that you can love someone and still not safe with them.
Sometimes I wanted to go back, not because I believed things were different, but because I was scared of my thoughts and being alone. I had to rebuild my relationship with myself.
I started making journaling, walking, and playlists. I was slowly learning my mother in pain.
We saw her flowers in all the peace we created. She wasn’t too flinched. She stopped asking me if something was wrong when I was having a moment of silence. She once again acted like a child. I knew the confusion I was walking to was already doing the job.
We learned a new ritual. I hug her in the morning before school. Singing in the car. Cook meals together and dance in the kitchen while things are simmering on the stove. It wasn’t just healing. That was a joy. Honest, simple, and joy from borrowed things.
I realized I don’t have to wait to feel safe. I can create it.
And in a small moment, I chose something different. I chose kindness. I chose the boundary line. We decided to believe it was worth more.
There were still days when I missed out on chaos. That part of me identified drama with passion, unpredictability without depth. But then I remember hearing her talking to a stuffed animal in the next room, and seeing her curl up in the bed with her cat. It’s safe. And we deserve to be safe.
In the end, the sadness calmed down. The pain is dull. I stopped having to explain my past to anyone, including myself. And then I started to dream again. Not just for her, but for me. I wanted her to grow up not only to hold it together but also to look at her whole mother.
Because one day she bumps into her own wall. She sat in the bathroom, in the alley and in the car, so I wondered how she got there. And I wanted her to remember that change is possible. That discomfort is not a failure. Sometimes, being your own hero means leaving before the fire consumes you.
One day I still stand in the doorway of her room, unable to move and need to leave – looking at my sweet girl who said she thought she had never been born. The day I realized that being a mother wasn’t just about protecting my child from harm. It was to protect her from becoming the kind of woman she thought harm was normal.
She didn’t need me to break. She had to watch me break and get up. That’s what I did.
About Claudine Plesa
Claudine Plesa is an appointed pastor, life and relationship coach and creator of a positive divorce blueprint. Divorced twice and married three times, she writes about healing, identity and emotional resilience with a dash of sincerity, grit and a disrespectful humor. She lives on a hobby farm in Ontario, Canada, surrounded by grandchildren, animals and an ever-growing sense of self. For more information, please visit PositiveDivorceBluePrint.com
