Loving With a Trembling Hand

I crave closeness, but my body remembers chaos.

There’s a version of me that wants to hold my son so close the world can’t touch him.

And another that steps back, afraid that if I hold on too tightly, I’ll somehow hurt him — or worse, lose him all over again.

That’s the dance of a fearful-avoidant mother.

It’s loving with a trembling hand.

It’s reaching out and flinching at your own reach.

The Push and Pull of Love

When Kaison wraps his arms around me, I melt first. Then tense.

My nervous system whispers, Don’t ruin this. Don’t scare him. Don’t need too much.

I learned early that love wasn’t steady.

It came with conditions — moods that shifted, affection that vanished mid-sentence, people who left without warning.

So now, when my son looks at me with trust I didn’t grow up knowing how to hold, I feel both honored and terrified.

I overthink everything.

Am I being too soft? Too firm? Too quiet? Too emotional?

Am I repeating patterns, or rewriting them?

And the worst thought — the one that crawls in at 4 a.m. —

Does he feel my fear?

I parent like someone who’s still learning what safety means.

When he’s upset, I want to soothe him, but my old wiring sometimes freezes.

When he pulls away, I feel rejection where there’s just fierce independence.

When he runs back, I fear it won’t last.

So I watch myself in real time — trying to be the mother I needed, not the one my anxiety tells me to be.

Some days I get it right.

Some days I apologize.

And some days, the apology is the healing.

Love That Trembles but Stays

My attachment style shows up in the small things:

the extra text I send to check on him,

the way I keep my voice steady even when my heart races, the way I pull him in for one more hug after saying goodbye —like I’m reminding both of us that love can stay.

He doesn’t know the language for it yet — fearful avoidant.

He just knows Mom tries.

That Mom’s love can be quiet and nervous and still, somehow, strong enough to stay.

The Happiest Moments of My Life

When I do see him — when the stars align and it’s our time together — the air changes.

Everything slows down.

The noise in my head goes quiet the moment he runs into my arms.

The rest of the world disappears.

It’s just him.

His laugh.

His smile.

The way his voice hits my chest when he says, “I missed you, Mom.”

We’ll sit at the park eating lunch, walk through the trees, and he’ll talk about school, his friends, his favorite video game — and I’ll memorize every word.

Because I know how fast time moves when you only get pieces of it.

Those visits aren’t just visits.

They’re the reason I keep going when the distance feels unbearable.

He may not live with me, but when he’s near, the world finally makes sense again.

Motherhood, for me, is re-parenting both of us at once.

Teaching him trust while learning it myself.

Showing him that love can be both fierce and gentle, even when it shakes.

Because the truth is — my fear and my love come from the same place:

wanting him safe.

And every time I choose connection over retreat — every time I stay in the room when my instinct says run — I’m teaching us both what healing looks like.

Author’s Note

For the mothers who love through their triggers.

Who show up even when their bodies say hide.

Who are brave enough to face their own wiring while raising someone who deserves better — this is for you.

You are proof that healing doesn’t erase the past; it rewrites the inheritance.