Journeys in Mental Health: From Fear to Compassion – What Healing Taught Me About My Mother’s Pain

In the latest ‘Journeys in Mental Health’ blog from PLOS Mental Health, an anonymous contributor shares their reflections on their childhood and how, with time, their understanding of their mother’s behavior changed. Our childhood shapes us all, and how we develop in our early years can be incredibly difficult to change in adulthood. As we enter a time of the year when many will be spending time with their families, we remember that for some this is beautiful, whilst for others it can stir up past trauma. The content below will likely resonate with many and we hope it can bring some healing, in the same way that it has helped towards the healing of the contributor. We thank them for sharing their inner thoughts with us.

Content Warning: This blog discusses topics and accounts that some readers may find uncomfortable or emotional. Please engage with it at your own discretion and please seek advice from a mental health professional if you are affected by the content.

As a child, I was afraid of my mother. Her voice could turn sharp and cold in an instant; her anger, unpredictable and terrifying. Home never felt safe. My nervous system learned early that calm could break into chaos without warning. I didn’t always know what I had done wrong – sometimes nothing at all. When I was small, the danger was physical. As I grew older, it became emotional – shouting, humiliation, silence and rejection for days. Power struggles became more evident. I learned to stay alert, to read every shift in her tone and expression, always on watch. The fear wasn’t just of punishment, it was of existing in a space where love and rage were indistinguishable.

The fear wasn’t just of punishment, it was of existing in a space where love and rage were indistinguishable.

I’m now an independent adult with a full, rich life – my own home, meaningful work, friends, and humor about my past. I live miles away from my mother, but I call and visit often. Our relationship has changed, mostly because I have changed. After eight years of therapy – CBT, EMDR, psychotherapy – and countless hours of reading, reflecting, and rebuilding, I no longer see her through the eyes of a frightened child. Now, when I look at her, I see someone very different. A woman who has lived with chronic major depression for over forty years, with episodes of psychosis and multiple suicide attempts. Someone whose impulsivity, anxiety, and low self-esteem have narrowed her world. Lately, I’ve started to notice memory lapses and cognitive decline. I see illness, regret, and sadness where I once saw only power. She regrets the physical abuse – the part that left visible marks – but struggles to understand that emotional abuse was also abuse and left much stronger marks. For her, shouting, shaming, or humiliation were “normal parenting.”. The ones she remembers. For the most of it, she was probably dissociated or in psychosis, and a lot of it just vanished from her memory. But for me these were alive for many years, very much alive. For me, they were wounds that shaped how I felt about being loved.

In therapy, I learned that the nervous system doesn’t distinguish between physical and emotional threat; both keep the body on alert. The bruises faded decades ago, but the emotional scars took far longer to heal. The body of a child raised in fear doesn’t forget – it stays ready. I have spent years unlearning that readiness, teaching my body that calm could be safe. This is a lifelong journey.

 …the nervous system doesn’t distinguish between physical and emotional threat; both keep the body on alert. The bruises faded decades ago, but the emotional scars took far longer to heal.

She tells me she’s sorry. And I believe her. But she’s sorry for what she can understand, not for what I experienced. When I try to explain how her words and unpredictability shaped me, she becomes defensive or breaks down. She hears my reflections as criticism, as if I’m saying my life would be easier if she changed. I tell her no. But maybe it would. It would. Still, part of me keeps trying. If I just explain it the right way, I think, maybe she’ll finally see. Maybe she’ll stop yelling, stop losing control, stop blaming herself, or me. But she won’t. She can’t. She is ill. And expecting her to become someone different is a way of keeping my own hope – and pain – alive.

She tells me she’s sorry. And I believe her. But she’s sorry for what she can understand, not for what I experienced.

Through years of therapy, I’ve learned that forgiveness doesn’t mean reconciliation. I can forgive her because I understand her suffering, her limitations, her history. But forgiveness isn’t the same as acceptance. I struggle to be around her for long. I leave visits feeling drained, sometimes sad, sometimes angry, always conflicted. I am no longer her victim, but I am still her child.

What I’ve come to understand is that healing isn’t about rewriting the past – it’s about releasing its hold on the present. I no longer need her to change for me to be at peace. I can feel compassion without surrendering my boundaries. I can love her, from afar, even if I can’t fully trust her. When I call or visit now, I remind myself that the child who once trembled before her is safe. And I can leave anytime. The woman who answers the phone – depressed and remorseful – is no longer the same mother who raised me. We are both shaped by illness, history, and grief, but also by survival.

Forgiveness came first. Acceptance, I’m still working on.

The author is a mental health researcher writing under a pseudonym