By Chelsea Drown 
There are only 13 years and 11 months between us.
I can’t imagine how hard that must have been—how lonely it must have felt at times. A childhood cut short, replaced with responsibilities that were night and day. Confusion and love, all wrapped into one.
Growing up, it felt like I had a big sister beside me.
A friend I loved with everything in me.
But she wasn’t just a friend.
She was my mother.
I relied on her for guidance, for reassurance, for someone to look up to. And now I find myself wondering, how could she give me all of that when she was still searching for it herself?
I can’t imagine.
Now that I’m a mother, I see it differently. What I once thought was the help of a mother often looked more like the closeness of a sister—doing the best she could, even if she may have wanted to be more.
Learning to recognize what you thought was “normal” and then reshaping that understanding isn’t easy. But I’m thankful that God meets us with grace and mercy in those places.
I still long for that mother-daughter relationship.
Other women I love have tried to fill that space, and I’m so grateful for them—but it isn’t the same. I wanted my own mother. I wanted someone my children could go to as well.
Someone to help me navigate friendships.
To teach me about Jesus from a young age.
To show me how to love myself for who I am.
To tell me I was doing well—and correct me when I needed it.
Someone I could call at any time.
Someone to walk me through postpartum questions and the unknowns of motherhood.
Those were things I had to learn on my own.
And I didn’t always learn them the easy way.
That kind of relationship felt hindered—by age, by growth, by circumstances neither of us fully understood at the time.
Now that she’s no longer here, I see it more clearly.
I see how hard it must have been for her too.
And I’m not sure she was ever given the chance to get on the path she may have wanted—for herself, or for me.
by Julie Hoag 
by Katherine Kring 
