I’ve read before, that motherless daughters often feel as if they will die at the same age their mothers were when they passed away. For me, that age was 33.
At a time in my life when I should have been coming into my own, I was anything but… I never could visualize myself as a mother or even as I might be when “I grew up.” I was frozen in limbo yet desperately wanting to know exactly when I would die during my 33rd year, for I knew it would happen. Would it be on my birthday? Would it happen in the middle of the year or cruelly on the day before I turned thirty-four? Anxiously I approached that year and every day until it was over. I lived in a constant state of uncertainty.
During my 33rd year I got divorced, changed careers, gave up sleeping and lost ten pounds. Sadly, and now with compassion, I look back at my perplexing choices and addled behavior and wonder how I made it through. I must forgive myself for not being totally present for my children, knowing now, that I was doing the best I could. I must forgive myself for not being present for me. My 33rd year was brutal and frightening and even now, brings me to tears.
I have lived 30 years past my mother’s age at the time of her death. I slowly and methodically pulled out of that 33rd year and must say I’m finally growing into my own. I am not without scars and memories of that time, but the intensity has lessened.
I truly am grateful for my extra years. I think God knew I would need an extension to get it all together, in fact, I’m still getting it all together. In the end, isn’t that what life’s all about?