“Raising Sons with a Wounded Heart: Forgiving the Girl, Becoming the Warrior.”

I’m the youngest of 10.
My parents were married for 56 years before they passed away.
And yet — even in a full house, I carried a quiet kind of loneliness.

I didn’t have that father-daughter bond that so many little girls need.
The kind where you feel protected, cherished, held.
As a child, I didn’t feel that love when I needed it most.

That gap?
It left a quiet ache.
One I didn’t know how to name… until I was raising two sons on my own.

It wasn’t until I got older that I could finally see —
My father did love me.
I just couldn’t feel it as a child.
But there were moments —
The sound of oldies. Dancing in the living room. Smiles wrapped in music.
Memories that live beside the grief.

My mother though..
She was everything.

She was soft, strong, and sacred.
A quiet warrior.
She gave endlessly and stood fiercely.
That’s where I get my fire — the kind of fire that keeps showing up, even when it’s tired.
Even when it’s hurting.

I became a mother without ever being taught how to mother myself.
There were days I was so overwhelmed,
not because I didn’t love my boys —
but because I didn’t know how to lead them into manhood.
How could I?

I was still trying to take care of the broken little girl inside me.

So I gave them everything I had:
All the love my mother poured into me.
Every drop of warmth. Every ounce of hope. Every late night prayer.

But the real turning point?
Forgiveness.

I had to forgive my inner child for feeling grief.
For feeling abandoned.
For carrying burdens she never should’ve had to hold.

I had to forgive myself.
The young mother who didn’t know what she was doing —
but showed up anyway.
With trembling hands. With fierce love.
With a heart that refused to give up.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3