Posted by: Tracy Barsamian Ventola | October 5, 2015

The Gift of My Mother Wound

My mother never scooped me up in a hug and covered me with kisses.

My mother never whispered softly in my ear that everything would be okay.

My mother never told me that I sparkled like the stars in the night sky.

As a result, I felt unloved.  Unwanted.  Broken.

But from my experience of childhood, I learned to be a warrior.

I learned to take care of myself.  To meet my own needs.  To rely on only myself.  I learned to assess a situation, determine what needed to be done, and to do it.  By myself.

warrior position

This weekend I attended a Shamanic(ish) workshop.  The teacher showed us ways to clear our old stories – our traumas – our wounds.  To clear our fears in order to stand in our power.  In the light.

I felt the teacher’s words physically resonate in my body.  I felt my heart fill with hope.  And then, I assumed the position that I’d learned as a little girl and mastered as a young woman:  warrior.  I set to work…to do what needed to be done.

Some of my classmates wanted to dissect the teachings.  To clarify every step of the process.  To acknowledge the difficulties associated with accomplishing the task to which we’d been challenged.

Perhaps if I’d had a mom who loved and supported me unconditionally, I would have needed to join in the group’s processing.  But, I had my mom.  So I assumed the warrior position without hesitation.  I did what needed to be done.  On my own.  And there in lies the gift of my mother wound.

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