insights into my soul pulled from medium.com/@radhamehta

love is not always enough

I read these words by Gabor Maté, MD with Daniel Maté (“The Myth of Normal”), and they struck something ancient in me:

“Children, especially highly sensitive children, can be wounded in multiple ways: by bad things happening, yes, but also by good things not happening, such as their emotional needs for attunement not being met, or the experience of not being seen and accepted, even by loving parents. Trauma of this kind does not require overt distress or misfortune of the sort mentioned above and can also lead to the pain of disconnection from the self, occurring as a result of core needs not being satisfied.”

this passage cracked me open.
as a mother of two…
and as a daughter once more.

because my parents loved me. fiercely.
they worked tirelessly to build a world of safety from nothing but grit and sacrifice —
the kind of love that is quiet and worn at the edges,
but strong enough to carry generations.

they fed us, clothed us, protected us from the world.
they tried their best — especially after my hearing loss diagnosis —
even when we couldn’t afford hearing aids,
they never made me feel less.

and yet…
somewhere inside me is a child still trying to earn love
that was already freely given.
a daughter still trying to prove her worth to a father
who never asked for proof.
a woman whose breath catches in the silence after praise,
wondering if it was enough.

there is no blame here.
only ache.
the ache of emotional needs unnamed, unmet — not from cruelty, but from survival.
from a culture that taught us to endure,
to be grateful,
to keep our heads down and keep going.
from a lineage of silence passed down like heirlooms.

and so I ask:
did I carry this ache from another life, another womb?
is this longing encoded in my emotional DNA,
a grief inherited before memory?

now, as a mother, I pray differently.
not just for protection from the world’s pain —
but from the pain that might come from me.

even in my love.
especially in my love.

because I’ve learned that love is not always enough.
love cannot fill what is not named.
love alone does not see what is hidden in a child’s gaze.

love must walk hand-in-hand with presence.
with attunement.
with softness.
with forgiveness — of our children, our parents, and ourselves.

and so I begin here:
I forgive myself for the way I’ve kept proving my worth.
I forgive myself for believing I owed my father my life,
instead of simply being a reflection of his love.

I accept that I have been loved.
that I am loved —
even in the messy, flawed, unfinished parts of me.

maybe in that acceptance,
I can offer my children something deeper than love:
a sense of being known.
a home inside themselves.
a peace that doesn’t need to be earned.

because love is not the solution.
love is the beginning.
and healing, forgiveness, and time —
they are the journey.