I was watching a movie recently where the mother dies, and in her will, she leaves a unique condition for one of her daughters to receive her inheritance: she must complete a childhood bucket list she created when she was little. For reasons life often delivers—twists, detours, and disappointments—this daughter had drifted far from those original dreams.
Even in death, her mother was trying to care for her—gently nudging her back toward who she truly was beneath all the layers of what life had done to her. Though I haven’t finished the movie yet, I imagine this journey will transform her. She’ll likely reconnect with her core self and begin living more authentically—guided by who she is, not just what she’s been through.
It made me pause.
What must that be like—to have someone who shows up in your life, even after they’re gone, to guide you back to yourself? To have someone watching over you, making sure you grow into the person you were always meant to be? Someone who offers comfort during the hard parts, reminding you that you’re not alone?
I didn’t have that.
Yes, my parents did the best they could. They loved me in their way. They worked hard and sacrificed in ways I’m deeply grateful for. But due to their own wounds and limitations, my brother and I never got the kind of support children need to become healthy, secure adults. Instead, we grew up surrounded by dysfunction, fear, and trauma—modeled more by survival than by love.
Sometimes I wonder who I could’ve become if I’d had that kind of childhood—the kind filled with steady love, guidance, and safety. I imagine it must feel like having a light on the path ahead instead of walking through the dark with only your own breath for company.
It must be beautiful. And I imagine many people who have that kind of upbringing don’t even realize how rare it is. For the rest of us—those who never got that kind of foundation—we learn to become our own light. We learn the hard way how to grow without anyone watering us.
And still, I am proud.
I am proud of the woman I am. I am proud of my resilience. I am proud of the strength it took to get here without a roadmap. At the same time, I’ve learned to make space for the grief—the longing for what could’ve been. For the hugs I never got. The protection I never felt. The wisdom I never heard whispered in my ear during hard moments.
This is my grief work.
To name what I didn’t get.
To honor what it cost me.
And to keep moving forward anyway.
My story is not what I would have chosen, but it’s mine. And I’m learning to love it—not because it was easy, but because it made me. And maybe, in doing that, I can become the kind of presence for others that I always wished I had.