Healing the Mother Wound | By Momma Lisa

I’ve been sitting with something tender this week.

Maybe it’s because so many people I love are walking through heavy seasons right now. Maybe it’s because the world feels louder, faster, and harder to make sense of some days. Or maybe it’s because I keep being reminded that beneath all of our strength, busyness, caretaking, smiling, achieving, coping, and “I’m fine” energy, there are still parts of us that are just little children wanting to feel safe, loved, chosen, and held.

So many of us are moving through life carrying things we don’t always talk about. The ache of what we didn’t receive. The words we needed but never heard. The hug that never came. The softness we longed for. The apology that was never offered. The mother who couldn’t quite see us, hold us, protect us, nurture us, or love us in the way our little hearts needed.

And for some, the ache is different now. Maybe your mom is gone, and you would give anything for one more conversation, one more smell of her perfume, one more chance to ask the questions, say the things, or feel her hand in yours. Maybe your relationship was complicated, and grief doesn’t come in a clean, easy package. Maybe you miss her and you are still angry. Maybe you loved her and also needed more from her. Maybe you are grieving both the mother you had and the mother you never got to experience.

That kind of grief can be so confusing.

How do you explain missing someone who hurt you? How do you explain grieving someone who was physically present but emotionally unavailable? How do you explain the void left by a mother who may have been doing her best, but whose best still left places in you untouched, unseen, or unprotected?

Why the Mother Wound Runs So Deep

Mother wounds can run so deep because our mothers were our first experience of love. Before we had words, we knew energy. Before we understood the world, we understood tone. Before we could explain what we needed, our nervous systems were already learning whether the world felt safe, whether love felt steady, whether our needs mattered, and whether we had to perform, disappear, please, achieve, stay quiet, become useful, or make ourselves smaller to stay connected.

Our mothers were our first model of safety, comfort, protection, affection, and belonging. They were the first place we looked to know, “Am I okay? Am I wanted? Am I safe? Am I lovable?”

And when that love was inconsistent, absent, painful, critical, distracted, overwhelmed, conditional, or simply not enough, something inside us learned to ache quietly.

Sometimes that ache becomes perfectionism. Sometimes it becomes people-pleasing. Sometimes it becomes control, anxiety, emotional walls, over-functioning, or choosing relationships where we keep trying to finally be picked, finally be understood, finally be enough.

But I want to say this as clearly and tenderly as I can: you were never hard to love.

You were a child.

You needed what every child needs. You needed warmth, presence, patience, protection, and repair when things went wrong. You needed to know that your tears were not too much, your needs were not a burden, your voice mattered, and your heart was safe in the hands of the people who were supposed to care for it.

If you didn’t receive that, it does not mean there was something wrong with you.

It means there was something you needed that you did not get.

And that deserves tenderness.

What I See When You Walk In

I watch you beautiful breathers walk in each week, and I see so much more than the adult standing in front of me.

I see the pain in your eyes. I see the exhaustion from holding it all together. I see the need to be seen, the need to be loved, and the need to be held without having to explain every broken place. Sometimes I feel it before you ever say a word.

I notice the way some of you grasp onto my hand. I notice the way your body finally lets me hug you. I notice the way the tears begin to flow when some part of you realizes, maybe for the first time in a long time, that you don’t have to be strong in that moment.

You don’t have to perform.

You don’t have to be okay.

You don’t have to explain why it hurts.

You can just let yourself be held.

And my heart aches to give each of you such love. Not the kind of love that fixes you. Not the kind that rushes you. Not the kind that says, “You should be over this by now.” But the kind of love that sits beside the wounded part and says, “I see you. I’m here. You are safe right now.”

That is the love I want you to feel when you are in the room with us.

That is the love I want your body to remember.

That is the love I want your inner child to finally receive.

Why “Momma Lisa” Means So Much to Me

“Momma Lisa” isn’t some silly badge someone gave me.

It comes from a very real place inside of me. A place that wants to make sure every person I come across gets a little piece of the mother’s love I never fully felt. A place that knows what it is like to need softness and not receive it. A place that knows what it is like to long for safety, tenderness, attunement, and someone who can simply hold space without making your pain too much.

Every time I put my hand on someone’s shoulder or gently grasp their hand while they are processing, I know I am not just touching the adult in front of me. I am holding sacred space for the little one inside. The one who needed someone. The one who waited. The one who learned to survive. The one who maybe forgot what it felt like to be safe.

In those moments, I feel like I am literally holding that little one while they reconnect with themselves.

What a gift. What an honor. What a sacred responsibility.

I do not take it lightly.

Because you are precious people. Rachel and I love you deeply. We want to see you blossom. We want to see that inner child come back to life with light in their eyes and a smile on their face for who their adult self is now.

We want you to see what we see.

What a gift each of you are to the world.

Even if you can’t see it yet. Even if you can’t feel it yet. Even if the world, your family, your childhood, or your own pain convinced you otherwise.

It is in there.

We see it.

We see you.

And Then Some of Us Became Mothers Ourselves

For those of us who became mothers ourselves, there is another layer of tenderness.

Because my goodness, many of us tried so hard.

We tried with the tools we had. We loved from what we knew. We mothered from what had been modeled to us by our mothers, and their mothers, and the women before them. We carried their survival patterns, their silence, their fear, their shame, their emotional unavailability, their criticism, their toughness, their “keep going” energy, and sometimes their inability to rest, repair, soften, or apologize.

Then we raised children while still carrying unhealed parts of ourselves.

We packed lunches with aching hearts. We drove carpool while exhausted. We tried to be patient while our own nervous systems were dysregulated. We tried to love better than we were loved. We tried to break cycles we didn’t even fully understand yet.

And still, sometimes, we missed it.

We reacted when we wish we had paused. We shut down when we wish we had leaned in. We controlled when we wish we had trusted. We corrected when we wish we had connected. We were tired. We were scared. We were doing our best, and sometimes our best still left wounds.

And ohhh… how I would do some of it differently now.

Not from a place of shame. Not from a place of beating myself up. But from the wisdom that comes after living, healing, seeing more clearly, and understanding my own wounds and the ways they spilled into the people I loved most.

There are moments I would soften. Moments I would listen longer. Moments I would hold instead of fix. Moments I would repair sooner. Moments I would say, “I’m sorry. I see how that landed. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I can understand why it did.”

I would have known that a child’s big feelings are not disrespect. I would have known that sensitivity is not weakness. I would have known that presence matters more than perfection. I would have known that being a good mother was never about getting it all right. It was about being willing to come back, own what was mine, and love more consciously as I learned.

And walking around knowing I still wounded my own children can feel crippling at times. Especially when I hear their pain. Especially when I now see what I could not see at the time. Especially when the awareness lands in my body and my heart says, “Oh, I understand now.”

That is such a hard truth to hold.

Because we can love our children deeply and still have hurt them. We can have meant well and still have caused pain. We can have done the best we knew how to do and still wish we had known more.

And the truth is, we don’t always get it right. Not because we don’t love deeply. Not because we don’t care. Not because we weren’t trying.

But because this is our first time living too.

This Is Our First Time Living Too

That sentence has stayed with me.

This is our first time living too.

Our first time being daughters. Our first time being sons. Our first time being mothers. Our first time learning how to love through our own wounded places. Our first time trying to create safety when maybe we never really knew what safety felt like. Our first time trying to be soft when life taught us to be hard. Our first time trying to listen when no one listened to us. Our first time trying to repair when no one showed us how.

There is something so healing in that truth.

Not because it excuses the pain. It doesn’t.

Not because it erases what happened. It can’t.

But because it opens a small door for compassion.

And sometimes compassion is the first breath of freedom.

The Gift My Daughter Gave Me

My daughter Rachel once gave me one of the greatest gifts of my life after her own plant medicine journey.

She was able to see some of our interactions through my lens — through my heart, my humanity, my pain, my limitations, and my love. She was able to see that there were places where I had wounded her, yes, but also places where I was loving her the only way I knew how at the time.

And she forgave me.

Even typing that feels sacred.

She forgave me for the ways I had wounded her. But maybe even more healing than that, she gave me permission to forgive myself.

I didn’t even realize how badly I needed that.

I didn’t realize how many places inside of me were still holding my breath. Still replaying what I should have done differently. Still grieving the moments I missed. Still punishing myself for not being the mother I wish I had been in every moment. Still carrying the weight of mistakes made from pain, fear, exhaustion, and old programming.

And when she gave me that forgiveness, something in me softened.

Not because I stopped caring. Not because I stopped taking responsibility. But because shame keeps us frozen, and love helps us heal.

That is what I want for all of us.

Not denial. Not bypassing. Not pretending it didn’t hurt. Not pretending we didn’t hurt others. But a sacred space where we can tell the truth with compassion.

A space where the daughter can say, “I needed more.”

A space where the son can say, “That hurt me.”

A space where the mother can say, “I didn’t know how, and I am sorry.”

A space where the little child inside of us can finally stop performing and just be held.

A space where the adult in us can stop carrying shame like a life sentence.

If This Is You

If you are a daughter or son who needed a mother who wasn’t there in the way you deserved, you are loved.

If you grew up feeling like you had to earn softness, attention, affection, peace, or approval, you are loved.

If you were the easy child, the responsible one, the invisible one, the fixer, the caretaker, the peacekeeper, or the one who learned not to need too much, you are loved.

If you are grieving the mother you lost, or grieving the mother you never really had, you are held.

If you are a mother estranged from your child, carrying guilt, shame, confusion, regret, or a hole in your chest that no one can see, you are not beyond healing.

If you are longing for reconnection but afraid to reach out, you are held.

If you know you have things to own, but the shame feels too heavy to face, you are held.

If you have apologized and still haven’t been met, you are held.

If you are learning that love sometimes means giving someone space while still keeping your heart open, you are held.

And if you are someone who has spent a lifetime trying to be good enough, quiet enough, easy enough, successful enough, spiritual enough, healed enough, or lovable enough, you can lay some of that down now.

You don’t have to keep carrying what was never yours to carry. You don’t have to keep punishing yourself for what you didn’t know. You don’t have to keep chasing love from people who could only love you from the level of their own healing. You don’t have to stay trapped in the same patterns that were passed down through generations.

And you don’t have to hate your mother to heal from what hurt.

That’s important.

You don’t have to abandon yourself to be loyal to her. You don’t have to minimize your pain because “she did the best she could.”

Both can be true.

She may have done the best she could, and you may still have been deeply wounded. She may have loved you, and you may still have needed more. She may have been carrying her own pain, and you still deserved to be protected from it.

Healing gives us room for the whole truth.

Not just the pretty truth. Not just the angry truth. The whole truth.

And when we can finally breathe into the whole truth, something begins to move.

Where the Healing Begins

There is a place where grief can soften. There is a place where anger can be honored and released. There is a place where the body can stop bracing. There is a place where the nervous system can learn that it is safe now.

There is a place where forgiveness doesn’t mean excusing what happened. It simply means you get to stop bleeding from it.

There is a place where you can return the pain that was handed to you and say, “This did not start with me, and it does not have to continue through me.”

And there is a place where the little one inside of you finally gets to be held.

Not fixed.

Not judged.

Not told to get over it.

Held.

That is why our upcoming Mother Wound workshop feels so sacred to me.

It’s not just a workshop. It is a healing space. A soft landing. A place to breathe into the places that still hurt. A place to honor what happened. A place to grieve what you didn’t get. A place to release what your body has been holding. A place to soften the guilt, shame, resentment, longing, anger, and ache.

A place to remember that you are not broken.

You are human. You are learning. You are healing. You are allowed to want more. You are allowed to feel what you feel. You are allowed to love your mother and still name what hurt. You are allowed to miss her and still be angry. You are allowed to be a good mother and still have things you wish you had done differently.

You are allowed to forgive yourself.

You are allowed to begin again.

And you are so deeply loved.

Come As You Are

Whether you are missing your mom, aching for the mom you needed, grieving a relationship with your child, carrying the weight of words left unsaid, or simply ready to stop carrying generational pain in your body, I want you to know there is room for you here.

Come as you are.

Messy, tender, guarded, grieving, hopeful, angry, numb, open — all of it is welcome.

You do not have to have the right words. You do not have to know exactly what you need. You do not have to be “healed enough” to walk through the door.

You just have to bring your breath, your body, and the part of you that is ready, even if it is only a tiny part.

We will breathe together. We will soften together. We will make room for the pain without letting it swallow us. We will honor the mothers, the daughters, the sons, the grandmothers, and the little ones inside us who have been waiting so long to be seen.

I’ll be there as Momma Lisa, holding the space with so much love.

And maybe, just maybe, this is where something inside you finally exhales.

Maybe this is where your body gets to set down what your heart has carried for years. Maybe this is where compassion begins. Maybe this is where the old story loosens its grip. Maybe this is where you remember that you were never too much. You were never not enough. You were always worthy of love.

And maybe this is where that precious little one inside of you finally feels the mothering they have been waiting for.

If this message touched something inside of you, I would be honored to hold space for you at our upcoming Healing the Mother Wound Workshop on June 27th from 1:00–6:00 PM at More Than Yoga in Plano. Together, Rachel and I will guide you through education around attachment and the mother wound, inner child reflection, and the powerful new 2-hour Healing the Mother Wound 9D Breathwork Journey, followed by an hour of Holographic Sound Healing and Living Hydrogen Water with Brittney Witt. Whether you are grieving, healing, forgiving, understanding, or simply longing to feel more connected to yourself, there is a place for you here. Come exactly as you are. Your story is welcome. Your heart is welcome. And perhaps this is the space where something inside of you finally gets to exhale.

With all my love,

Momma Lisa
Breath by Design