I Learned Love Backwards

I learned how to love my momma long after I needed her to love me.

By the time she moved in with me, she was sick, tired, and still just as stubborn as ever. Some things don’t change with age, they just slow down enough for you to notice them more.

That first six months…it was a whole life packed into one season.

I had two young kids, a husband working out of town, a job that didn’t pause just because life got heavy… and now my momma, living in my home, needing me for just about everything.

Everything except cooperation.

Now let me tell you something…trying to lead a prideful East Texas woman to bath water is a full-contact sport.

“Momma, you need a bath.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

And just like that, we were right back where we’d always been.

Two strong-willed women.
One bathroom.
Zero agreement.

Eventually, I won. Not because she gave in…but because I outlasted her.

That became a pattern.

She decided she wanted a garden.

Now, I don’t know the first thing about planting vegetables. My experience with plants is mostly watching them die slowly under my care.

But Momma?

She had a vision.

So there she sat, on a chair I dragged outside, while I dug holes in the Texas heat like I was training for something I did not sign up for.

“Deeper.”
“No, not like that.”
“Those are too close.”
“You’re doing it wrong.”

I was sweating, covered in dirt, questioning my life choices……and she never touched the ground.

Just directed.

Which, if I’m being honest…felt a little familiar.

Then there were the yeast rolls.

Lord, those rolls.

My kids would come running into the kitchen, grabbing them hot, butter melting down their fingers like it was the greatest day of their lives.

And honestly… I didn’t blame them.

But dinner?

Dinner was not supposed to be only rolls.

“Momma, they need protein.”

“They’re fine.”

“They are not fine.”

“You were raised on this.”

And I’d think, Exactly. That’s the problem. But she never saw it that way.

She never saw anything wrong with how we were raised.

And that…that landed heavier than anything she ever said out loud.

There were moments, quiet ones, where the thought would come in sharp and fast:

She never did this for me.

Not when I was tired. Not when I was overwhelmed. Not when I needed someone to step in and carry me for a while.

And I won’t lie… I thought it often. More than I wanted to admit.

But the strangest thing?

I wasn’t resentful.

I was exhausted.
I was stretched thin.
I was doing too much with too little support.

But I wasn’t bitter.

And that surprised me more than anything.

My siblings did what they could to help. It was hard for some of them and I understood why. We all came from the same place… we just carried it differently.

They felt it.
They felt the history.
They felt the weight.

They even felt guilty.

So, I carried it, for all of us. And I made it look easy. “It’s fine,” I’d say. Even when it wasn’t.

Especially when it wasn’t.

Bathing her was hard. There’s no gentle way to say that. Helping your mother into a bath…washing her hair…seeing her that vulnerable…It changes something in you.

And then there were her feet.

Sweet Lord.

I tried to get her to go get a pedicure.

“No.”

“Momma, please.”

“I don’t trust them, and the smell hurts my lungs.”

So there I was. A tub of warm water. A towel. And a level of commitment I did not know I possessed. Those toenails…they weren’t just long. They had history.

And when I clipped one, it didn’t clip. It… crumbled. Like dust.

I paused.

Stared at the clippers. Reconsidered everything. She didn’t miss a beat.

“You missed a spot.”

Of course I did.

Tim was going insane. And honestly… I couldn’t blame him.

So I found her a place close by. Got everything set up. Handled the logistics.

And somehow…made it feel like it was her idea. Because the last thing I ever wanted was for her to feel unwanted.

I paid her bills.

Bought her groceries.

Managed her medications.

Sat in doctor’s offices trying to find specialists who would take Medicare and actually listen.

Took care of her dog.

Showed up.

Over and over again.

And through all of it…she never really saw what it cost me.

Not fully.

Not the way I needed her to.

But somewhere in the middle of all that doing…something shifted.

Because I realized, I wasn’t loving her because she had loved me well. I was loving her because that’s who I was.

Somewhere along the way…through all the things I didn’t get…I didn’t lose that part of me.

I became it.

I didn’t learn love by being given it.

I learned it by becoming it.

And maybe…that part of us was never the mud to begin with.

Author’s Note

This story was inspired by the upcoming conversation on the Delay the Binge™ Podcast Becoming Series on Thursday this week.

There’s a story about a golden statue that was once covered in mud to protect it. Over time, people forgot what was underneath and believed the mud was all there was.

In this piece, the “mud” represents the layers life places on us, pain, survival, and the patterns we carry just to make it through.

But underneath all of that… something remains.

Something whole.
Something true.

If this story resonated with you, this week’s Delay the Binge™ Podcast episode goes deeper into the idea behind it, including the “Golden Buddha” story that inspired this piece.

Subscribers get early access when they join my email list here:
👉 https://newsletter.delaythebinge.com/