My Mother Devoted Her Entire Life To Getting Her Family's Approval
How her insecurities affected me.
Marjan_Apostolovic | Canva My mother was physically present growing up but she was never really there. My mother picked me up from school and ensured I was clothed, fed, and housed. We spent almost every evening together, and yet, I have no memories of one-on-one time with her, or her even asking how my day was.
My mother was constantly lost in her world, and there was no place for me.
I recall going to friends’ houses and having their mothers gather with us at the table, laughing, sharing stories, and sometimes advice. I couldn’t imagine my mother doing this. She often coldly said hello to my friends, and ended the interaction there. The consensus from my friends was that my mother was cold. Some suggested she was bitter about her divorce. I knew better.
My mother’s bitterness came from her unmet need for approval from her mother and brothers.
I remember watching my mother carrying grocery bags up the stairs leading to our home. As I watched the heel of her shoe climb the stairs, I thought to myself: This woman is impenetrable. She is my mother, but who is she? I didn’t long to be like her. I didn’t look up to her. I longed to understand her.
Today, psychotherapists would likely label my mother’s parenting as distant and emotionally unavailable.
My mother didn’t show interest in my life — instead, her main focus was her own family: Her mother, her brothers, and their families.
My mother came from a seemingly tight-knit Sephardic Jewish family, whose inner workings were laced with control. My grandmother was the matriarch, a highly respected elderly woman fiercely devoted to her children and grandchildren, but whose devotion came at a cost.
My grandmother set forth the rules applicable to the family, ordering her children, and by ricochet their families, to spend weekends together, celebrating Shabbat and other holidays as they arose. Her children, all desperate for her approval, complied obediently.
My extended family spent every weekend together, not as a pleasure, but as an obligation. My mother, curiously, claimed she hated going but dragged me there every single weekend.
Before going, my mother put on makeup and patted her skirt. She needed to look impeccable to avoid gossip and criticism from the family. She wanted to make sure I looked good, clean, and well cared for. I couldn’t help but realize that the same level of concern was not present when I went to school, saw friends, or engaged in any conduct outside of her family.
Any member of the family could easily taunt either of us saying our clothes looked terrible, or that we looked tired. The others would laugh in unison. My mother rightfully wanted to avoid the taunting.
When at family events, my mother adorned a fake smile, laughing at any joke made, but never shared any personal information about herself.
Conversations mostly focused on religion and secondarily, gossip. A strong stench of judgment lingered in the air. The family was aggressive and highly critical of one another.
“Where are you going?” they asked angrily if I had to leave the event sooner. If I used my phone on Shabbat, they looked at me in horror and spoke behind my back about how lost I was. My mother taught me it was safer to keep quiet than to risk ridicule and taunting.
As my grandmother grew older and less autonomous, my mother’s brothers inherited her throne and exerted coercive control.
My mother remained a servant to the kingdom. My mother participated in all family events, never missing one, even if sick, but she was not acknowledged. Aside from a hello, no one said a word to her unless it was to belittle her over an opinion or statement. My mother faded into the background, laughing at jokes, pretending to have a ball.
Family events were prioritized, over all other events. Anything else could wait. She got angry with me when I was busy, and she, just like them, did not take no for an answer.
The family get-togethers appeared innocent to strangers, but scratching under the surface was my mother’s inner child desperate for approval so violently withheld.
The ignoring and unappreciation of her were proud displays of the family’s disapproval of my mother. Her family was happy to dictate everything in her life to show her she was useless and powerless without them. My mother held onto this narrative.
My mother’s yearning for her mother and siblings’ love took over her life.
Which school to send her daughter to? Let them decide. What type of foods to serve? Let them decide. Should she keep kosher? Let them decide. If my mother did not let her family decide, her mother and brothers engaged in harassment, calling profusely and expressing shame and disgust. These cheap tactics weakened my mother. She often felt exhausted, as she increased her efforts to please her family.
My mother complained that I didn’t do what her family wanted. She meant attending a Jewish school happily, eating kosher, and growing up to marry a subservient Moroccan Jewish man. This is what her family wanted. What I wanted and what my mother wanted were irrelevant.
Although my mother was physically present, she was burnt out and emotionally unavailable from trying to win love that was never really hers. This filled her with inherent misery. Many times, even as a child, I asked her “Have you ever been happy?”
She ignored my question.
When I tried to connect with her on a deeper level, my mother often ignored me and told me she was exhausted.
I disappointed my mother repeatedly.
I was not what her family wanted, and consequently, I was not the daughter she wanted. My mother wanted a daughter who would win her family’s approval, or at least devote her life to trying, just like she did. Because I was not impressed with her family and their withholding of love, I was a liability to my mother.
Photo: fizkes / Shutterstock
She needed me to change. She devoted efforts to making me believe her family was better than all. She tried to convince me that they were high-class and close. I too was exhausted from this dance and the pressure.
Despite being a mother herself, my mother’s first loyalty was to her original family. I was not important in her eyes. My value was derived solely from the interest my mother’s family had in me, if any. As a woman seeking her own mother’s love and acceptance, my mother had no love to give me.
This left me with a large void and a familiar array of negative feelings to identify, untangle, face, and eventually heal from.
I felt like a disappointment. My identity, my needs, and my struggles as a person were not of interest, let alone acknowledged. My mother didn't ask about my days and was not available to hear my struggles.
I learned to lie and hide the truth. I felt I couldn’t put my mother through more than what she had been through. When I was profoundly unhappy in the school that her family had selected for me, I shared this, but when I saw my mother wasn’t receptive, I turned my pain and anger inward and blamed myself for not fitting the mold.
Just like my mother painted her life rosy, I did the same. I didn’t burden her with my problems. I kept it all in. I pretended to be fine because I couldn’t imagine adding a layer of burden to her already troubled life.
I didn’t have a support system in my mother — we had no emotional connection. I was made to feel like a burden: A person to take care of, feed, and clothe. And I owed her. I had to work hard to become successful because she couldn’t handle any further disappointment.
I was bitter, and most of all, felt unloved.
I discussed this with my mother multiple times, allowing her to make me feel wanted. She didn’t. Her typical response to my pleas was, “If I didn’t love you why would I feed you? Why would I still be in contact with you? You put me through so much.”
Was it me or her family who put her through so much?
Why did she care so much for their approval — approval which had been withheld and dangled in her face? How could a family get together so often yet continue to live as total strangers? They didn’t love her. She was a sheep in search of guidance.
Her need for approval was so deep that she couldn’t see me. I still could never discuss real issues with her. We talked about the weather. For a while, she contacted me solely to notify me of upcoming family events. Then she stopped. Then, we resumed our relationship discussing the weather.
When my eldest daughter was born, my mother didn’t come to visit once during the first few months. I asked her why. She had to take care of her elderly mother, and her other family members refused to do so. Her family came before her first grandchild. I had no choice, she said, demonstrating my mother’s undying devotion to gaining her original family’s love and approval.
Emerald Myara (she/her) is a writer who covers topics such as narcissistic abuse, trauma, mental health, relationships, and healing.