Was It Him… or Was It Me?
A quiet realization about motherhood, memory, and what we hold onto
I look back and it just catches me off guard sometimes. I’ll be going about my day and all of a sudden it hits me, this wave of emotion I didn’t expect.
I think about his childhood. About how it looked. About how different it was from what most people would call “normal.”
No prom. No talking about what happened at school. Would he and his sister have been best friends? No typical high school experience. No just being home, living that everyday teenage life.
And I find myself tearing up thinking… did he miss out?
Did my son lose something growing up this way?
And then the questions start.
Is he going to resent it someday?
Is he going to wish he had those things?
I’ve spent some time sitting in that.
But the other day, something hit me.
For the first time, I stopped and asked myself…
is it really him I’m worried about?
Or is it me?
Am I the one who misses what that could have looked like?
Am I the one who wishes I had more time with him at home… more “normal” days that didn’t revolve around rinks and travel and schedules?
Because when I really think about it, he didn’t seem like he was missing anything.
He was where he wanted to be.
He was doing what he loved.
He was all in, every step of the way.
Maybe he didn’t have a “normal” childhood.
But maybe… he wasn’t supposed to.
Maybe he always had a different path. One that gave him independence earlier than most. One that built friendships and experiences that don’t happen sitting at home.
And maybe the truth is… I’m the one grieving something.
Not his childhood.
But my version of what it could have been.
The version where he stayed close.
Where life was a little slower.
Where I got to hold onto those everyday moments just a little bit longer.
That doesn’t mean I would change anything.
I guess it just means I’m a mom.