Mom. A complicated word.

One of my biggest struggles is my longing for a mom. I have a biological mother. She is a complicated part of my life.

I never had a mom to teach me how to swim.

I never had a mom to teach me how to ride a bike.

I never had a mom to soothe my broken heart over my first break up.

I never had a mom to talk to me about growing up.

I never had a mom to share my triumphs with or to help me see the lessons in my failures.

I call her mom because she gets angry if I call her anything else.

She’s “mom” when she’s screaming at me, calling me names.

She’s “mom” when she tells me she never wanted to be my mom.

She’s “mom” when she’s tearing down the only things that make me happy anymore.

She was “mom” when she was beating me.

She was "mom" when she would hand me over to my trafficker and tell me “You’re a whore, do your job,” and lock the door behind me.

She's “mom” when she ignored my cries of pain and my broken body.

She's “mom” when she ate while I wasted away.

She may make me call her "mom", but she is not a "mom"

I want, possibly more than anything, a mom who loves me.

I want a mom who says she's sorry when she hurts me because she’s human and it happens.

I want a mom who I can call when I’m lonely, when I’m lost, and when I’m sad.

I want a mom who gives big hugs, words of encouragement, and Godly advice.

I want a mom who I can curl up on the couch with when I just want closeness.

I want a mom to hold me when I fall apart, to stroke my hair and tell me I’m safe and okay when the flashbacks crash in on me.

I want a mom to remind me my life is worth living and God loves me.

I never had a mom. I’ll probably never have a mom.

But that doesn’t take away the longing.