A wounded child
February 19, 2013 
3 Comments
– from 2009
As I write this, I am 48 years old. I am an adult. A mother. A grandmother. A wife. A businesswoman. An employee. And I am a wounded child.
I shared something really important with my mother the other day. Something I really wanted to see excitement in her face about. Something I really wanted to hear her say she’s proud of me about. When I told her, the response was — let’s say significantly less than I anticipated. A soft smile, a statement and that was it.
My spirit was crushed.
I went to church yesterday where a young woman who is such a precious soul noticed my demeanor and asked me what was wrong. I told her my brief story. Her response floored me.
“I wonder if anyone ever told your mom they were proud of her.”
Wounded children are everywhere. Some of us are older than others, but we’re out there.
I want my mother to be proud of me, but I may not hear it, may not see it. I think she is, I hear that she tells all these other people about me, but she doesn’t tell me.
Rather than wallow in that wound and pick off the scab, let us make changes. Let us be mindful of telling others — related to us or not — that we’re proud of their accomplishments. That accomplishment might be seemingly small, but to a wounded child, it’s major. Tell that one. By all means, brag about them to others, but tell them, too.
