Self-Mothering: Learning to Give Myself What I Needed All Along

Girl, I cut my hair recently.

Not out of heartbreak or on a whim—but out of intention. It felt like a soft rebellion. A quiet declaration that I am stepping into something new. Something that feels like home, even if I’m still learning how to live in it and love it.

I also moved into a new space last month. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like I’m finally choosing me—not the me that takes care of everyone else, but the one who is learning to care for herself first.

The Girl Who Had to Be Grown

I’ve spent most of my life nurturing others. I’ve always been the big sister—by blood and by behavior. I was the dependable one. The mature one. The friend who had the advice. The girl who held it down. I poured into my siblings, my friends, and even grown people when I was still figuring it all out myself. I gave and gave, because giving felt like love. And I wanted to be loved so badly, I didn’t realize I was leaving myself behind.

The depth of love I give has always been ocean-deep—gentle but wide, quiet but overwhelming. It holds people, holds space, holds weight. It sees people fully, and gives what was never given to me.

And that’s been true in love too.
In relationships, I’ve often found myself attracting people who, like me, lacked maternal nurturing. People with invisible bruises, unspoken grief, and unmet emotional needs. And because I recognized that, I made it my job to love them back to life.
But in doing so, I carried the emotional weight for both of us. I became the nurturer, the safe space, the anchor. And slowly, I began to disappear in the name of love.

The Haircut and the Move: A Quiet Rebirth

I had been thinking about cutting my hair for a year. Last October, I trimmed about two inches. Three weeks ago, I took off another five. And just two days ago—I did the big chop. No turning back. No hesitating. Just me, standing in the mirror, letting go of everything I no longer needed to carry.

Cutting my hair wasn’t about starting over—it was about releasing weight I’d been carrying in silence. It was the little girl in me finally exhaling.

Moving gave me a blank canvas. A new space to boldly make home. No inherited burdens. No lingering energy.
I’ve always been the host—the one who opens her home, sets the mood, creates the space for others to feel held. But in this season, I need to host myself. I need my own hospitality. I need my attention to detail. I need my warmth. I need me.

These physical changes were rooted in something deeper: I’m mothering myself now because I deserve a me.
I deserve to be loved the way I love.
To be met with the same depth, the same care, the same presence I’ve always offered so freely.

When Survival Looks Like Success

Survival mode doesn’t always look like chaos. Sometimes, it looks like achievement.
Like degrees earned. Milestones met. Jobs worked. Smiles worn.

For me, survival has often worn the costume of accomplishment. I’m a first-generation college graduate—with both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree. But to be honest, none of it ever felt celebratory. It just felt like what I had to do to “make it happen” for myself, because no one else could.

I’ve worked hard—but I’ve hardly celebrated.
Because when your life has always been in go-mode, stopping to reflect feels like a luxury.
And for years, I confused survival with strength.

The truth is, because success has always felt like a requirement—deeply personal and never optional—I don’t even feel the need to share it anymore.
Not when all I’ll hear is, “I’m proud of you,” from people who have no idea what it cost me.
And honestly, that’s not enough for me anymore. I’m not looking for saving.
I’m looking for seeing.
For softness.
For space to exist without performing.

And that’s where self-mothering comes in.
It’s the way I’m finally giving myself what no one else knew I needed.

What Self-Mothering Looks Like for Me

It’s not all bubble baths and journaling (though I love both).
Self-mothering is checking in with myself like I would with someone I love:

“One day at a time, sis!”
“Have you eaten?”
“How do you feel today?”
“What do you need from me right now?”

It’s resting without guilt.
Creating a routine that protects my peace.
Letting myself cry without explaining why.
Reminding myself that I am allowed to choose softness, even when the world expects my strength.

It’s me being patient with my healing.
Nurturing the girl who didn’t get what she needed.
Becoming the woman she can feel safe with.

The Hardest Part: Releasing the Hope That Someone Else Would Do It First

There’s grief in realizing that no one is coming to save you.
That the love, protection, and softness you craved may never arrive in the form you dreamed of.

But there’s also power in choosing yourself—again and again.
To no longer wait for someone to show up for you, but to be the one who shows up.
To say, “I’ve got you, baby girl,” and mean it.

Girl, Finally

Self-mothering isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence.
It’s the decision to no longer abandon yourself, even when it feels unfamiliar.
I’m still learning. Still softening. Still healing.
But I’m proud of this version of me. The one who chose herself.

And to every woman learning how to nurture herself after years of survival—
I see you.
You are worthy of the care you give so freely to others.

Girl, finally.