Restoring the Disconnected Mother
May 31
Written by Jess Lea
This is a story I don’t share often. I've seldom reflected on, let alone given voice to, the family trauma—especially my mother’s past and her relationship with alcohol.
But lately, it weaves through me, asking to be told as I reflect more deeply on the Mother archetype I’ve carried—and how I, too, struggle with disconnection.
This sharing is intended to shed light on how easy it is to validate the loss of power, and the many ways we disconnect—whether out of necessity or choice. When we can see clearly where we've come from and begin to reclaim the full essence of who we are, we heal. Our ancestors become free. And we change the world through our embodied choices.
Here we go.
I hope you’ll join me—hand in hand—as we step into this together and begin to refill ourselves with our power.
I sense a profound disconnection within me, passed down through generations, beginning with my mother. It seems rooted in our Hungarian-German lineage, where stoicism and strength were often revered—sometimes at the cost of joy, which was viewed as a weakness.
In my ancestral line of farmers and survivors, emotions and desires were luxuries for the wealthy. They labored to survive, not to feel. The stories passed down—especially through the women—spoke of lost loves and enduring hardship without the support of the men they loved.
My mother, a third-generation immigrant, grew up on a family farm in upstate New York with her parents, grandmother, and brother. Her childhood was marked by tragedy—abuse, illness, and loss came early. The weight of responsibility fell on her young shoulders, caring for her younger brother while her mother worked to provide.
When the farm was sold and the family moved to New Jersey, the past was sealed—unspoken and unresolved.
Later in life, my mother found love in my father, a man carrying wounds of his own. His need for external validation and betrayal mirrored the emotional abandonment that threaded through our lineage. My mother—sensitive and intuitive—began suppressing her feelings to meet expectations and survive.
For years, I didn’t fully understand her pain. But now, I see her as a beacon of love—doing her best to hold on amidst the chaos of her own life. Her love for us, her children, remained one of her greatest joys, even as she struggled quietly beneath the surface.
There was a time when our relationship felt strained and distant, shaped by misunderstanding and unmet needs. Her drinking, and the disconnection it caused, created a deep void in my life. I especially felt this after the passing of my grandmother—my “lifeguard”—who had lived with us or nearby since my birth and died when I was 19.
The women in my family continued a pattern of absence, focused on survival rather than nurturing presence. And I see, honestly, how I’ve followed that same path in certain ways with my own children.
But through these reflections, I’ve come to see the power and necessity of healing the mother wound—both within ourselves and collectively.
This wound forms early—where our first experiences of love, safety, and acceptance are shaped. When those foundations are fractured, they ripple throughout our lives, influencing how we show up in relationships, how we care for ourselves, and how we connect to the feminine.
I’ve witnessed this pattern not just in myself, but in the many clients I’ve worked with. And it always points back to one thing: a longing to reconnect with the mother within—that quiet, nurturing essence that has been silenced, hidden, or forgotten.
To reconnect is to remember:
We are the feminine.
We are the Woman.
We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.
Choosing ourselves—through self-care, body love, emotional safety, and soul-aligned desires—is a sacred act of revolution.
It’s time to stop carrying and coddling these inherited roles:
The Wounded Woman
The Witch Wound
The Secret Love / Mistress / Mistake
The Perfect Housewife
The Midlife Wild Woman
The Unloved Daughter
And to begin, simply, with a conversation.
Send me a message. Share your story.
When we hold space for each other—to speak, to be witnessed, to release—we begin the reclamation.
And that is where the shift begins.
