Mom Guilt Quotes

The problem with this is that if we beat ourselves up after a mistake, we add shame onto the guilt and frustration that we already feel about our mistake. That guilt and frustration can be helpful in moving us forward, but shame...shame keeps us stuck. It's a paralyzing emotion. When we get caught in a shame spiral, we tend to make more of the same kinds of mistakes that caused us shame in the first place".

But mostly, I remembered what I’ve always believed. What my mom taught me. That while some things are just plain awful, most things in life can be seen either tragic or comic. And it’s your choice. Is life a big, long, tiresome slog from sadness to regret to guilt to resentment to self-pity? Or is life weird, outrageous, bizarre, ironic, and just stupid? Gotta go with stupid. It’s not the easy way out. Self-pity is the easiest thing in the world. Finding the humor, the irony, the slight justification for a skewed, skeptical optimism, that’s tough.

That guilt and frustration can be helpful in moving us forward, but shame… shame keeps us stuck. It’s a paralyzing emotion.

We had guilt of every flavor: We had working-mom guilt, childless guilt, guilt because we’d turned down a social obligation, guilt because we’d accepted an invitation we knew we didn’t have time for, guilt for turning away work and for not turning it down when we felt we were already being taken advantage of. We had guilt for asking for more and for not asking for enough, guilt for working from home, guilt for eating a bagel, Catholic guilt and Presbyterian guilt and Jewish guilt, none of which tasted quite the same. We felt guilty if we weren’t feeling guilty enough, so much so that we began to take pride in this ability to function under moral conflict.

Remember what mom used to say? “Shred the guilt.

I forgive you." The power of those words rushes through me, purging all the torturous memories of my youth. It gushes into all the cracks my mom's neglect and addictions have created, filling them with a mercy that's not my own.

We don’t need the money that badly,” my mother said. “According to my sisters, we do.” I slid the photograph with dollar signs toward her. Mom swung toward Grandma Frida. “Mom!” Grandma Frida’s eyes got really big. “What? Don’t look at me!” “You started this.” Ha! Attack deflected and redirected. “I did no such thing. I’m innocent. You always blame me for everything.” “You started it and you encouraged it. Now look, she’s taking on murders because you’re guilt-tripping her to put food on the table. And what kind of message does this send?” “A true-love kind of message.” Grandma Frida grinned.

Balance is Impossible; Memories are Better.

Guilt is a response to what you think you’ve done wrong. Shame is feeling that who you are is wrong.

I’m realizing for the first time how exhausting it is to constantly curate my natural tendencies, responses, thoughts, and actions into whatever version Mom would like most. Without her around, I don’t have to. I miss her deeply, and my heart aches over what she’s going through, and I certainly feel a lot of guilt about the ease I feel these days, but that ease is undeniable.

How could I possibly be so upbeat when my surroundings were so obviously heavy? I was two. Age is no excuse. I feel tremendous guilt every time we rewatch the home video. How could I not have known

I need to be strong enough to move away on my own, to pull Mom's hooks out of my heart, to forget about Uncle Max. I need to be strong enough to carry all the guilt of what happened to my family because of me.

After the derailment I wondered obsessively about the great whatever. Much seemed to ride on the character of the whatever, including the degree and tenacity of my guilt in the matter. But miles pass, years climb up your shoulders. My insistence on Mom's and Dad's joyous afterlife gradually dimmed.

And I know you did your best for Les, Mom. I hope you know that, too. You did everything you could, but sometimes even all the love in the world from mothers and brothers isn't enough to help pull someone out of their nightmare. We just need to accept that things are what they are, and all the guilt and regret in the world can't change that.

It takes a while to figure out who you are as an introverted mother, who you are as a person now that the lifelong job of raising children has forever altered your identity.

Balance in impossible; memories are better. (TILT-7 Solutions To Be A Guilt-free Working Mom)

Mother’s Day has evolved into a Yom Kippur for guilty children everywhere. Taking Mom out to brunch used to be an appreciative gesture. Now it’s a guilt-expiation liturgy.

Mom Guilt hurts but with purpose. Mom Shame just sucks.

I fully grant that mysterious invisible room-cleaning is in a way great, every true slob’s fantasy, somebody materializing and deslobbing your room and then dematerializing—like having a mom without the guilt.

Age is no excuse. I feel tremendous guilt ever time we rewatch the home video. How could I not have known better? What a stupid idiot. How could I have not sensed what Mom needed? That she needed all of us to be serious, to be taking the situation as hard as we possibly could, to be devastated. She needed us to be nothing without her.

it is easy for parents to pass on unnecessary guilt, shame, and insecurity to their children because we fear the rejection of critical and judgmental people in our lives. So if I can help other parents understand the profound importance of accepting children as they are, perhaps I can save those children from some of the anguish I felt for many years.

I’m talking about the soul-crushing drudgery of day-to-day parenthood that we’re too embarrassed to talk about. The boredom, the stress, the nagging dissatisfaction, and the sense of personal failure that parents feel when raising a kid isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Perhaps worst of all is the guilt that so many women buy into because they’re too ashamed to admit that despite the love they have for their kids, child rearing can be a tedious and thankless undertaking.

How do I get past it?” she mumbles, not necessarily to him. Hate. Hurt. Guilt. And grief. So much of it that I feel its thickness and its weight, like she is drowning and can’t breathe. “A single step at a time,” the man says, speaking from some profound experience of his own and with deep understanding, making me wonder if all pain might be the same regardless of its origin. “You’re still here,” he goes on. “So there’s not really a choice. An inch, a foot, not necessarily in the right direction, but onward nonetheless.” My mom shudders a deep breath, looks up at him. “Until eventually,” he says, “the present becomes the past, and you are somewhere else altogether, hopefully in a better place than you are today.

recalibrate your day-to-day life.

Harlow concluded that contact comfort, or touch, is critical to the formation of a parent-child bond and that a lack of this contact is psychologically stressful.

Homeschooling is not a race ... You will not get behind, nor do you have to live with guilt that you feel the need to catch up.

I knew I’d sounded bitter, but I didn’t bend even when guilt threatened to throttle me with its bony fingers. “I hope it was worth it, Mom.

Let me set the record straight here: I have never loved books more than my husband, yet I need my books so I can love my husband even more.

Good enough is the new perfect.

The idea is that you can’t give 100 percent of yourself to everything every day, but you can give 100 percent of yourself to everything on specific days.

Becoming a mother will test you and push you and fill a part of your soul that you never knew existed. It will teach you how strong you are,

Why stay ‘dead’ once his memory returned?” “Guilt.” I almost choked on the word, though I couldn’t have explained why. “Toby loathed himself almost as much as he loved my mom.

It took some time getting used to, and it’s not all sunny days, but life with my children is better than anything I had before. You might not feel the same right now, but you will. I promise.

The problem with this is that if we beat ourselves up after a mistake, we add shame onto the guilt and frustration that we already feel about our mistake. That guilt and frustration can be helpful in moving us forward, but shame… shame keeps us stuck. It’s a paralyzing emotion. When we get caught in a shame spiral, we tend to make more of the same kinds of mistakes that caused us shame in the first place.

How could I possibly be so upbeat when my surroundings were so obviously heavy? I was two. Age is no excuse. I feel tremendous guilt every time we rewatch the home video. How could I not have known better? What a stupid idiot. How could I have not sensed what Mom needed? That she needed all of us to be serious, to be taking the situation as hard as we possibly could, to be devastated. She needed us to be nothing without her.

Guilt is a powerful emotion, and I want to ask God to forgive you. Give Him your guilt and shame. There's nothing you've done that Jesus' shed blood on the cross doesn't cover. He loves you, Mom, and I love you too.

When someone dies they get very cold and very still. That probably sounds obvious, but when it’s your mother it doesn’t feel obvious—it feels shocking. You watch, winded and reeling, as the medical technicians neutralize the stasis field and power down the synthetic organ metabolizer. But the sentimental gesture of kissing her forehead makes you recoil because the moment your lips touch her skin you realize just how cold and just how still she is, just how permanent that coldness and that stillness feel. Your body lurches like it’s been plunged into boiling water and for the first time in your life you understand death as a biological state, an organism ceasing to function. Unless you’ve touched a corpse before, you can’t comprehend the visceral wrongness of inert flesh wrapped around an inanimate object that wears your mother’s face. You feel sick with guilt and regret and sadness about inconsequential anecdote. You can’t remember anything thoughtful or sweet or tender that you ever did even though logically you know you must have. All you can recall is how often you were small and petty and false. She was your mother and she loved you in a way nobody ever has and nobody ever will and now she’s gone.

I deeply wish for you to stop waiting for someone else to give you permission to nurture you. And instead of outsourcing your care, you lean into the personal power that you contain to rearrange how your needs, nourishment, and wellness are prioritized.

Moms, we have a profoundly important choice. We can view motherhood as parasitic or mutualistic. We can view motherhood as an expansion of what we can become or as a restriction of who we already are. Motherhood can be a pathway of meaning-making or life-taking.

I fully grant that mysterious invisible room-cleaning is in a way great, every true slob’s fantasy, somebody materializing and deslobbing your room and then dematerializing—like having a mom without the guilt. But there is also, I think, a creeping guilt here, a deep

I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string. L. M. MONTGOMERY, ANNE OF AVONLEA

The realities of motherhood are often obscured by a halo of illusions. The future mother tends to fantasize about love and happiness and overlooks the other aspects of child-rearing: the exhaustion, frustration, loneliness, and even depression, with its attendant state of guilt.

Dear Net, I am so disappointed in you. You used to be my perfect little angel, but now you are nothing more than a little SLUT, a FLOOZY, ALL USED UP. And to think—you wasted it on that hideous OGRE of a man. I saw the pictures on a website called TMZ—I saw you in Hawaii with him. I saw you rubbing his disgusting hairy stomach. I KNEW you were lying about Colton. Add that to the list of things you are—LIAR, CONNIVING, EVIL. You look pudgier, too. It’s clear you’re EATING YOUR GUILT. Thinking of you with his ding dong inside of you makes me sick. SICK. I raised you better than this. What happened to my good little girl? Where did she go? And who is this MONSTER that has replaced her? You’re an UGLY MONSTER now. I told your brothers about you and they all said they disown you just like I do. We want nothing to do with you. Love, Mom (or should I say DEB since I am no longer your mother) P.S. Send money for a new fridge. Ours broke.

The sickest part of this whole story is that I tried really hard to make up for what I thought I did to her, after she started talking to me again. I loaned her money whenever she needed it, I gave her rides whenever she called and needed to get somewhere, I did my best to pretend like David wasn't in the room with us when I was at her house, I did whatever I could that I thought might show her that I loved her and cared about her, and I never meant to hurt her. It took a while before I realized that would never happen. She'd never love me like a mom is supposed to. She would never be there for me like I tried to be for her. She would never apologize for anything or admit that she was wrong.

Loving him with the love of God Affirming him daily, believing in who he will become Understanding his limitations and learning to be patient with his disability Never passing on guilt to him for being limited Changing his heart gradually through training in character and inner strength Holding expectations loosely and leaving him in the hands of God

Recently I was having a conversation with a mom who is trying to wrestle through the implications of grace in her parenting methods and responsibilities. She admitted that she had read too many books. She had exhausted herself trying to be a good mom and meet all the needs of all her children, raising them for the Lord....Now, in the middle of all her pain and exhaustion, she's trying to embrace grace but continues to be crippled by fear and guilt. "I wish I had never read those books," she admitted. "I feel guilty and exhausted all the time." I asked her, "How would you raise your children if all you had was the Bible?" "Well, I guess I would love them, discipline them, and tell them about Jesus." I smiled and answered, "Right.

The moral of the story isn’t to keep you from having children altogether or to force you into the complete resignation of your former self but rather to help you to understand that what you’re feeling is common, that you are not the only woman to feel this way, and that it does work itself out. Periods of transition are just that… periods. It’s not forever, and you will come through it.

What I can make people do . . . it’s not what they want to do. It may sound corny, but I want people to like me for me, not because I can force them to or because of who my mom is or who I am in the Family. You know?” He raised his green gaze to my blue one. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Lila. You don’t care about any of that.” “Just one of the things?” I teased, trying to make him laugh a little, just so he’d forget his guilt and grief, if only for a few moments. “Just one.” His voice took on a low, husky note. “I could list all the others, if you want.” My gaze locked with his and my soulsight kicked in, showing me all of his emotions. And I felt them, too—more intensely than I ever had before. His heart still ached with that soul-crushing guilt, and it always would. But that hot spark I’d seen inside him that first day at the Razzle Dazzle had finally ignited into a roaring fire, burning as hot and bright as my own emotions were right now. Devon hesitated, then leaned in, just a little. My breath caught in my throat. He inched forward a little more. I wet my lips. He came even closer, so close that his warm breath brushed my cheek and his scent flooded my nose, that sharp, fresh tang of pine. Clean and crisp, just like he was, inside and out. I sighed. Suddenly, my hands itched to touch him, to trace my fingers over the sharp planes of his face, and then slide them lower, over all of his warm, delicious muscles . . . “Lila,” he whispered. I shivered, loving the sound of my name on his lips—lips that were heartbreakingly close to mine—

Sometimes I look at her and I just hate her. And then I hate myself for feeling that. I'm worthless without her. She's everything to me. Then I swallow the feeling I wish I hadn't had, tell her 'I love you so much, Nonny Mommy,' and I move on, pretending that it never happened. I've pretended for my job for so long, and for my mom for so long, and now I'm starting to think I'm pretending for myself too.

Something clicked. She had all kinds of insights about having been taught that being a mom was the best thing about being a woman but having sex wasn’t okay, that the pleasure of delicious food was blocked by guilt about her body… lots of things. But in the end, something just clicked, and she let go of a bunch of stuff. She started wondering if maybe sex could be for her pleasure, too, rather than something “for Johnny.

- Child is abused, perpetrator threatens to hurt mother. Child feels protective of mother. - Struggle to escape perp reinforces feelings of mutual protection. It's Mom and I against the world. - Something necessary at the time later creates "enmeshment." Child doesn't see her actions as separate from mother. Even during normal adolescent individuation. But-- - Normal individuation doesn't happen in abuse survivors. They don't feel normal, so they-- - Act out in unhealthy or self-destructive ways, which creates-- - Fear and pain for mother, which creates-- - Guilt for child who still feels responsible for mother's emotional health. - Child seeks release from the guilt and from not feeling normal, which leads to-- - Escape to the world of other not normal people, where mother can't see her child self-destruct, which leads to-- "The bad news.

I think women should have choices and should be able to do what they like, and I think it's a great choice to stay at home and raise kids, just as it's a great choice to have a career. But I don't entirely approve of people who get advanced degrees and then decide to stay at home. I think if society gives you the gift of one of those educations and you take a spot in a very competitive institution, then you should do something with that education to help others... But I also don't approve of working parents who look down on stay-at-home mothers and think they smother their children. Working parents are every bit as capable of spoiling children as ones who don't work - maybe even more so when they indulge their kids out of guilt. The best think anyone can teach their children is the obligation we all have toward each other - and no one has a monopoly on teaching that.

If your boundaries have been injured, you may find that when you are in conflict with someone, you shut down without even being aware of it. This isolates us from love, and keeps us from taking in safe people. Kate had been quite controlled by her overprotective mother. She’d always been warned that she was sickly, would get hit by cars, and didn’t know how to care for herself well. So she fulfilled all those prophecies. Having no sense of strong boundaries, Kate had great difficulty taking risks and connecting with people. The only safe people were at her home. Finally, however, with a supportive church group, Kate set limits on her time with her mom, made friends in her singles’ group, and stayed connected to her new spiritual family. People who have trouble with boundaries may exhibit the following symptoms: blaming others, codependency, depression, difficulties with being alone, disorganization and lack of direction, extreme dependency, feelings of being let down, feelings of obligation, generalized anxiety, identity confusion, impulsiveness, inability to say no, isolation, masochism, overresponsibility and guilt, panic, passive-aggressive behavior, procrastination and inability to follow through, resentment, substance abuse and eating disorders, thought problems and obsessive-compulsive problems, underresponsibility, and victim mentality.

Then it came to me. The only way to be free was to forgive them—and forgive myself. It was advice I’d heard plenty of times, but on that day in the hotel, I was ready to do it. In an instant, I stopped expecting anything from them. Their approval, friendship, understanding, empathy, love. And I stopped believing that Dad, Mom, and Mona were right about me—or any of us. I didn’t want to carry around the burden of longing and guilt and shame anymore. I was done.

But most kids are never asked. Kat went from the age of five to thirty-five without anyone ever asking her what had happened in her early life. Her past was always “The Big Unmentionable.” As a result, she felt “deep-seated shame.” Wherever she went, she says, “I carried so much unspoken guilt about what my father had done and about my having said the words that sent my own dad to jail. My family almost never talked about my mom’s murder. It was as if none of it had ever happened.

FURIOUS FAVOR I wonder if David would be allowed in our churches today. In most cases, when a church member has an affair, he is shunned at best or mistreated at worst—even if he repents. But David doesn’t just have an affair. He lusts, covets, fornicates, lies, and gets another man hammered. Then he tries to keep his dirty little secrets by murdering the husband of the woman he “loves.” I doubt I’ve met anyone as sinful as David. Have you? He breaks half of the Ten Commandments in a single episode. And he doesn’t repent until he’s caught. But when Nathan shoves his prophetic finger into David’s chest and rebukes him, David falls to his knees and admits his guilt. And right then, at that moment, God rips open the heavens to reach down and touch David’s soul with stubborn delight. God eagerly forgives David for his sin, and all of it is buried at the bottom of the sea, never to be remembered again. There is no hiccup in God’s furious favor toward David. So why do repentant sinners still bear the stigma of “adulterer,” “divorced,” or “addict” in our churches today? It’s one thing if they don’t repent. But quite often we shun repentant sinners, like Jeffrey Dahmer, whose crimes we just can’t forget. “He’s the former addict.” “That’s the divorced mom.” “Here comes the guy who slept with the church secretary.” For some reason we love to define people by the sin in their lives—even past sin in their lives—rather than by the grace that forgave it. It’s no wonder that David pens the last sentence in Psalm 23: “Surely goodness and mercy shall [hunt me down] all the days of my life” (Ps. 23:6).

You are not needy. You are not too much. You are not required to give all of you in order for others to thrive. You must not give all of you. In fact, it is imperative that you don’t. You deserve to live a life in which you feel at peace. A life where you have less guilt and more lightness. Where you have less moments of soul-sucking burnout and more moments of joyful play and laughter. I want you to know that you have radical permission to take that last piece of cake, to eat dinner while it’s hot, to go pee, to take a vacation without the kids, and to pursue something that brings a sparkle to your eye. There is room for you to wholly exist in your family.

You are not needy. You are not too much. You are not required to give all of you in order for others to thrive. You must not give all of you. In fact, it is imperative that you don't. You deserve to live a life in which you feel at peace. A life where you have less guilt and more lightness. Where you have less moments of soul-sucking burnout and more moments of joyful play and laughter. I want you to know that you have radical permission to take that last piece of cake, to eat dinner while it's hot, to go pee, to take a vacation without the kids, and to pursue something that brings a sparkle to your eye. There is room for you to wholly exist in your family.

He smiled, and some of the knots in my stomach loosened. He would keep my secret. Devon hesitated, then reached over and put his hand on top of mine. His skin was warm, as though the sun had soaked into his body. I breathed in, and the crisp, clean scent of him filled my nose, the one that made me want to bury my face in his neck and inhale the essence of him over and over again. But I forced myself to exhale and step back, putting some distance between us, even though our hands were still touching. “Look,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “You’re a nice guy, a great guy. But I’m going to . . . be here for a while. You’re an important member of the Family, and I’m your bodyguard, so it’s my job to protect you, and we’re going to have to work together. But I don’t think there should be anything . . . else.” “Because of your mom, right?” he asked in a low voice. “Because you blame me for her death?” I sucked in a breath, so rattled that I couldn’t even pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about. First, my magic, and now this. Somehow, Devon knew all my secrets. “How do you know about my mom?” I croaked out. “I remember everything about that day in the park,” he said. “Including the girl with the blue eyes who helped save me.” I didn’t say anything. I could barely even hear him over the roar of my own heartbeat in my ears. “It took me a while to figure out why you seemed so familiar. When I realized you reminded me of the girl in the park, I knew it had to be you. Mom would never have brought you here otherwise. Plus, there are several photos of your mother in the library. You look just like her. I know what happened to her. I’m sorry that she died because of me—so sorry.” His green gaze locked with mine, that old, familiar guilt flaring to life in his eyes and punching me in the gut. And once again, I found myself wanting to comfort him. “I don’t blame you for her death,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault. It was all the Draconis.” “Do you really mean that?” he whispered. “I do.” Devon closed the distance between us and stared down at me. I let myself look into his eyes for another heartbeat. Then I pulled my hand out from under his and stepped away. Hurt flashed in his gaze before he could hide it. I wanted to stop. I wanted to tell him that I felt this thing, this attraction, this heat between us just as much as he did. I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck, pull his lips down to mine, and lose myself in him. But I couldn’t. Not when I was planning on leaving the mansion, the Family, and him, the second I thought it was safe. I already cared about Devon way too much. And Felix and Oscar and even Claudia. I didn’t need to fall any farther down that rabbit hole, especially where Devon was concerned, because I knew exactly where I would end up—with my heart broken.

Motherhood often feels like a game of guilt management. Sometimes the guilt is overwhelming and debilitating. Sometimes just a low simmer, but it always feels right there. There is never any shortage of fuel to feed the beast, so the whole mechanism is constantly nourished to administer shame and a general feeling of incompetency. Add our carefully curated social media world, which not only affects our sense of success and failure, but also furnishes our children with an unprecedented brand of expectations, and BOOM – we’re the generation that does more for our kids than ever in history, yet feels the guiltiest. Virtually every one of my friends provides more than they had growing up, and still the mantra we buy into is ‘not enough, not enough, not enough.’ Meanwhile, if we developed the chops to tune out the ordinary complaints of children, we’d see mostly happy kids, loved and nurtured, cared for and treasured.

Creating “Correct” Children in the Classroom One of the most popular discipline programs in American schools is called Assertive Discipline. It teaches teachers to inflict the old “obey or suffer” method of control on students. Here you disguise the threat of punishment by calling it a choice the child is making. As in, “You have a choice, you can either finish your homework or miss the outing this weekend.” Then when the child chooses to try to protect his dignity against this form of terrorism, by refusing to do his homework, you tell him he has chosen his logical, natural consequence of being excluded from the outing. Putting it this way helps the parent or teacher mitigate against the bad feelings and guilt that would otherwise arise to tell the adult that they are operating outside the principles of compassionate relating. This insidious method is even worse than outand-out punishing, where you can at least rebel against your punisher. The use of this mind game teaches the child the false, crazy-making belief that they wanted something bad or painful to happen to them. These programs also have the stated intention of getting the child to be angry with himself for making a poor choice. In this smoke and mirrors game, the children are “causing” everything to happen and the teachers are the puppets of the children’s choices. The only ones who are not taking responsibility for their actions are the adults. Another popular coercive strategy is to use “peer pressure” to create compliance. For instance, a teacher tells her class that if anyone misbehaves then they all won’t get their pizza party. What a great way to turn children against each other. All this is done to help (translation: compel) children to behave themselves. But of course they are not behaving themselves: they are being “behaved” by the adults. Well-meaning teachers and parents try to teach children to be motivated (translation: do boring or aversive stuff without questioning why), responsible (translation: thoughtless conformity to the house rules) people. When surveys are conducted in which fourth-graders are asked what being good means, over 90% answer “being quiet.” And when teachers are asked what happens in a successful classroom, the answer is, “the teacher is able to keep the students on task” (translation: in line, doing what they are told). Consulting firms measuring teacher competence consider this a major criterion of teacher effectiveness. In other words if the students are quietly doing what they were told the teacher is evaluated as good. However my understanding of ‘real learning’ with twenty to forty children is that it is quite naturally a bit noisy and messy. Otherwise children are just playing a nice game of school, based on indoctrination and little integrated retained education. Both punishments and rewards foster a preoccupation with a narrow egocentric self-interest that undermines good values. All little Johnny is thinking about is “How much will you give me if I do X? How can I avoid getting punished if I do Y? What do they want me to do and what happens to me if I don’t do it?” Instead we could teach him to ask, “What kind of person do I want to be and what kind of community do I want to help make?” And Mom is thinking “You didn’t do what I wanted, so now I’m going to make something unpleasant happen to you, for your own good to help you fit into our (dominance/submission based) society.” This contributes to a culture of coercion and prevents a community of compassion. And as we are learning on the global level with our war on terrorism, as you use your energy and resources to punish people you run out of energy and resources to protect people. And even if children look well-behaved, they are not behaving themselves They are being behaved by controlling parents and teachers.

So then…you still like me?” “Yeah,” I whisper. “I mean, sort of.” My heartbeat is going quick-quick-quick. I’m giddy. Is this a dream? If so, let me never wake up. Peter gives me a look like Get real, you know you like me. I do, I do. Then, softly, he says, “Do you believe me that I didn’t tell people we had sex on the ski trip?” “Yes.” “Okay.” He inhales. “Did…did anything happen with you and Sanderson after I left your house that night?” He’s jealous! The very thought of it warms me up like hot soup. I start to tell him no way, but he quickly says, “Wait. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” “No,” I say, firmly so he knows I mean it. He nods but doesn’t say anything. Then he leans in, and I close my eyes, heart thrumming in my chest like hummingbird wings. We’ve technically only kissed four times, and only one of those times was for real. I’d like to just get right to it, so I can stop being nervous. But Peter doesn’t kiss me, not the way I expect. He kisses me on my left cheek, and then my right; his breath is warm. And then nothing. My eyes fly open. Is this a literal kiss-off? Why isn’t he kissing me properly? “What are you doing?” I whisper. “Building the anticipation.” Quickly I say, “Let’s just kiss.” He angles his head, and his cheek brushes against mine, which is when the front door opens, and it’s Peter’s younger brother, Owen, standing there with his arms crossed. I spring away from Peter like I just found out he has some incurable infectious disease. “Mom wants you guys to come in and have some cider,” he says, smirking. “In a minute,” Peter says, pulling me back. “She said right now,” Owen says. Oh my God. I throw a panicky look at Peter. “I should probably get going before my dad starts to worry…” He nudges me toward the door with his chin. “Just come inside for a minute, and then I’ll take you home.” As I step inside, he takes off my coat and says in a low voice, “Were you really going to walk all the way home in that fancy dress? In the cold?” “No, I was going to guilt you into driving me,” I whisper back.

They judge me because I nurture my child, I judge them because they tell me not to.

Guilt” meant wildly different things to different mothers. There were those who said they “felt guilty” because they ached to hold their babies and worried that they’d left them, unsoothed, in less capable hands. Then there were others who luxuriated in the freedom of the office—the air conditioning, the lovely bottled water, the intelligent conversations, the almost-forgotten bliss of being alone in their own skin. Those mothers also “felt guilty,” they said. Why? For not missing their babies more! Guilt was an automatic. Like some unconscious tic.

See if you can recognize any of these patterns from your own life or from the lives of your friends and family members: Only being able to earn a certain amount of money each month, no matter how hard or how much you work Only being attracted to partners who turn out to bear an uncanny resemblance to your asshole dad (or to your asshole mom, or to the first person who broke your heart, or whatever) Hearing the mean voice of your third-grade teacher in your head whenever you sit down to create, so you avoid creating Overeating (or overindulging in drugs, alcohol, etc.) to cover up feelings of guilt, shame, loneliness, frustration that seem endless Disliking yourself/your body no matter what your shape Perpetually feeling victimized and like your life would be good if only rude other people (your family, your boss, your spouse, your employees, the government, the blacks, the gays, the straights, the whites, the Jews, the Christians, the capitalists, the hippies, etc., etc.) would stop messing with you

One hand for my mom, one hand to stop the fall. No hands for anyone else.

But if you’re Filipino, you get it, because Filipino moms all do what my mother does. The constant bickering that never really stops or starts, it just is. The ping-ponging from love to punishment, from indulgence to guilt, back and forth, back and forth, over and over. Putting you on a pedestal one day only to tear you down again the next.

it reminded me of my mom. She wasn’t a bad person at all, and I don’t think she ever meant to be mean. Difficult yes, but not mean. She just wanted attention and love. But she never seemed to get what she needed, or it wasn’t enough, and so the drinking and then the drugs kind of numbed that, I guess. But she hated herself for it. That was the worst part—the guilt. She felt so bad about what she was doing to both of us that she needed to numb more. It was a vicious cycle, like you said.” “It’s a terrible place to be.” James looked out at the water. “Sometimes I think people who have problems like that are operating at a higher frequency than the rest of us. It definitely has its perils.” “What do you mean?” “People like your mom feel things more sharply. Life is hard when you’re like that—there are lots of pointy edges to run into. If you don’t have a thick skin, even little bumps can hurt like hell. I think that’s why people use. They’re trying to protect themselves from the pain.

Well, shit. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut as it dawned on him. She had been grieving her mom today, had been probably screaming inside as the agony tormented her, but instead of coming to him—her mate—for any kind of comfort or even to just confide in him or cry on his shoulder, she had retreated within herself. Because she hadn’t felt like she could come to him, had probably thought that he wouldn’t want her to. Then when he, like a bastard, refused to give her the space she needed, she had finally sought comfort. The fact that the only place she thought she could find it was a shoe box filled with memories of her dead true mate was like a blow to Trey’s gut. A blow he deserved. Guilt knifed through him as he thought about how much of a prick he had been to Taryn. Dante was right. Although this mating was temporary, that didn’t mean that Trey should be able to just cast her aside. She had become his responsibility the second he claimed her, but all he’d done was try to escape that responsibility when he got a little spooked by his wolf and some primal instincts. He had frozen her out, just as she had done to him today. The feelings of rejection, anger, and desolation he had experienced earlier were things that she had obviously been suffering with all this time. In total silence. Shit, she hadn’t deserved that, hadn’t deserved his cold shoulder, especially when she was being so loyal to their deal. It was a wonder that she hadn’t left—it wasn’t as if she couldn’t have sneaked off. It was clear by the way she had led them on a merry chase and covered her tracks so well that she had the ability at least to try to make a run for it. It wasn’t as though fear of him kept her here. She hadn’t once expressed any fear of him, not even when his wolf had gone feral. Although Roscoe was dead and she didn’t need Trey anymore, she had stayed to fulfill her end of the deal. Even though he’d been a total ass. Even though his grandmother constantly strove to make her feel unwelcome. Even though it meant having to lie to her friends and repeatedly claim that her true mate had been nothing but a good friend. One thing was for sure—she was a better person than he would ever be. She was someone who any male would be proud to have as his mate, temporary or not.

I want to disagree with Mom, but part of me concurs that a Lanky invasion of Earth would be a mercy killing of our species. We’ve spent most of our history trying to exterminate each other anyway. This way, we’ll at least have some dispassionate outside referee settling all of humanity’s old scores permanently. No more generational feuds, no more ancient grudges, no more pointless revenge carried out against people who inherited some old guilt from their great-grandparents. We will all just go down the path on which we’ve sent so many species ourselves, and we’ll just be a note in someone else’s xenobiology textbooks, listed under the header “EXTINCT.

Then what is it?” I questioned. “You promised you’d be honest with me. What is it do you want?” “Not something you’d be willing to give.” “Zeke, dammit, what are you after?” “You, Sash!” His voice raised at first and then he muttered under his breath, “I’m after you.” The hell was that supposed to mean. I abruptly stood and Zeke got off the couch with me. “What?” “Your mom, she was the one who brought me to you but it was you who made me want to stay, Sasha. I stayed, looking out for you, making sure you’re safe… because of you.” “Me?” My heart knocked and bashed against my ribs. “You stayed because of me?” “It was your goddamn smile that did it.” He reached the back of his neck and scratched just under his skull. “I can’t get over how beautiful it is.” “There is no way,” I told him. “You’ve been trying to make my life hell since you started working with me.” “Because it stopped me from getting too close to you.” “Why didn’t you want to?” “I’m a bad influence on girls like you.” “Girls like me?” Ha. “You mean the kind of girls that have their father killed just to get away from them?” I cried tears of guilt. My chin dipped to my chest. “I’m not perfect either, Zeke. You could have told me the truth.

It’s funny how the moment Mom acts reasonable I start to feel bad about leaving when she so clearly would love me to stay. There is nobody on this planet who can get under my skin like my mother, which only fuels my complaining about her, and yet the moment she shows a shred of humanity I crumble. The guilt begins to creep into my system like venom burning its way through my blood, but the universe delivers me the antidote in the form of my cell phone buzzing in my pocket, quickly reminding me why I so desperately need to get away from this place and everyone in it.

I could feel him looking at me, wanting me to turn toward him and say something, anything. He needed me to constantly assuage his guilt, every moment of every day. Sometimes I could do it; other times it made me resent him almost as much as Mom did. Because he gets to have his basement purgatory where he can be both victim and villain, and get away with feeling shitty all the time. And Mom gets her women’s group and her alcohol and self-righteous indignation, and she’s also allowed to feel shitty all the time. Me, I get to supervise them both, sitting here in the kitchen so they can talk to me and not each other, so their cold war can continue into eternity. Didn’t they think I’d like to have permission to feel shitty all the time too? Couldn’t they give me a day where I could sulk around and behave like a child and let go in front of them, and they would both be stuck mediating my mess? (Something Like Gravity, 75)

Stay on your job if you can. It not only helps to balance the mind-numbing routine of mothering young children, but also provides you the connection with the outside world. You’ll have more to share with your children, and you’ll light up their growing minds with infinite knowledge. Never give up learning, even when knowledge

We are all love, looking for a place to happen.” -Abraham-Hicks

But if I’d been so fortunate as to have a God-given talent like yours, I wouldn’t have wasted it.” Mom wasn’t particularly religious, but when laying on a guilt trip, she liked to bring along backup, and she figured God was the only disapproving authority as fearsome as she.

It is humbling to be the parent of a child who brings our all of your weaknesses repetitively. But living in guilt for not being perfect will never serve our need to grow stronger.

Tyler, on the other hand, came from a different family setting. In his home, no had two different responses. His mom would be hurt and withdraw and pout. She would send guilt messages, such as “How can you say no to your mom who loves you?” His dad would get angry, threaten him, and say things like, “Don’t talk back to me, mister.

And I’m not just talking about mom guilt, that secret society reserved for mothers that batters one single notion into our brains over and over and over again: That no matter what we do, no matter how hard we try, we’re doing it all wrong. That every little thing is our fault; that we’re unfit, unworthy. That our shortcomings are the cause of every scream and tear and trembling lip.

If we beat ourselves up after a mistake, we add shame onto the guilt and frustration that we already feel about our mistake. That guilt and frustration can be helpful in moving us forward, but shame...shame keeps us stuck. It's a paralyzing emotion. When we get caught in a shame spiral, we tend to make more of the same kinds of mistakes that caused us shame in the first place.

Sanity has left me. I’m no longer Lyla Morris, Registered Nurse. I am Lyla, Neo’s stupid little girl. And no thoughts of worry or guilt fill me. I can’t make myself care what the world will think. What my mom will think when she hears I’m on the run with a lunatic. Because the only thing that matters to me is us.

Moms often find themselves in situations wherein they have to do necessary chores or responsibilities while sacrificing the time they could have spent cuddling their little ones.

The worst yet innocent guilt there ever existed is the mom-guilt. Moms often find themselves in situations wherein they have to do necessary chores or responsibilities while sacrificing the time they could have spent cuddling their little ones. This guilt is so intense yet equally necessary at times.

The worst yet innocent guilt there ever existed is the mom-guilt. This guilt is so intense yet equally necessary at times.

It’s just that I needed a few moments to collect myself after what happened. And see, those moments turned into a few years. I just wanted to thank you for saving me. For being the best mom a girl could have. I’m so sorry my guilt stood in the way of doing the right thing. I promise you, it’s over now. I’ll be good to everyone who is still alive and I love. Everyone.” And I mean it. Everyone.

I know he’s in pain. I know he carries it around every second of every day—guilt for not being able to save his mom and sister in the fire, guilt for Alina being kidnapped, guilt for not having found her yet. It’s tearing him apart, piece by piece, day by day, it’s destroying him, and there’s not a goddamn thing any of us can do to stop it. “We’re going to find her,” I tell him.

The guilt means you’re a great mom, but you also have to let yourself off the hook sometimes.

His phone rang just as he set his evidence kit on the ground. He glanced at the display and took the call. "Hey, Mom." "I ran into Cindy Jenners at the store today." "No." "She's such a nice young woman." "Not interested." "Your sisters abandoned me." "They didn't abandon you. They got married." "They moved to other states. I don't have a single grandchild. within driving distance. How can they be so curel?" She gave a guilt-laden pause. "Mrs. Ottmann said she saw you talking to some blonde with Massachusetts license plates by the feed store yesterday." Chase closed his eyes and brushed his thumb and forefinger over his eyelids. "I was giving her a speeding ticket...

Stop talking. Now.” Deanna’s head fell back and she started laughing. It was a full-bodied belly laugh that spread over him like a breeze on a hot day. The sound was so sweet that it almost made up for how big of a disgusting pervert he felt like right now. While she was still chuckling, she touched his arm. “Don’t feel bad. How old were you then?” “It was senior year, so seventeen,” Lucky answered, still feeling gross. “See? You were a teenager, too. It’s fine. Really.” She continued giggling, and he had to admit that the sound made him so happy that he didn’t even care that it was at his expense. “It still feels wrong.” His shoulders shook as a chill ran through him, and it wasn’t the good kind. It was the grossed-out kind. “I think it’s hilarious,” she said, clearly enjoying seeing him squirm. “I’m so glad I can amuse you,” he said flatly. “Well, I think it’s only fair since I seemed to have offered hours of amusement for you—” Without even thinking, he reached over the seat and started tickling her. She wiggled and laughed, begging him to stop. He did, but only because a call came in. When he saw the picture on his console’s display, he knew he had to answer it. Pressing the answer button, he extended his patent greeting to his publicist. “Hello, beautiful.” “Why can’t you just play nice with others, especially the press?” Jessie Sloan-Courtland asked in her usual no nonsense tone. Jessie wasn’t one for niceties. She was all business, all the time. Deciding to ignore her rhetorical question and her dislike for small talk, he pushed on undeterred. “I’ve been good. How about you?” “Lucky. You can’t treat the press like that.” Jessie seemed to have the same game plan as he did. This conversation was going to happen, so he figured he might as well just get it over with. “I wasn’t there for them. I was there for the kids.” “It doesn’t matter. They were there, and whether you like it or not, you have a responsibility—” “I had a responsibility to visit the kids and their families. I had a responsibility to protect the people I brought with me. And I lived up to my responsibilities.” “I’m not going to argue with you. You’re supposed to be cleaning up your act. We agreed. And your image is your responsibility. When you elbow photographers in the nose, you open yourself up for lawsuits, and that is not something sponsors think is appealing. You know what’s on the line with this bout. Don’t screw it up.” “Yes, Mom,” he answered—his normal response for when Jessie was right. “You know, you’re not nearly as cute as you think you are,” she said, sounding less than impressed. “Awww, you think I’m cute. Does Zach know? I don’t want to come betw—” “Goodbye, Lucky.” “Bye, beautiful.” When the call disconnected, Lucky felt a little twinge of guilt that Jessie had even had to make that call. He knew better. “Wow. She’s awesome.” Unlike Jessie, Deanna did sound impressed. “Yeah. She is pretty awesome,” he agreed. “And so beautiful.” Deanna was still looking at Jessie’s picture on the console. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea just because he’d called her beautiful. “Her husband sure thinks so. He’s actually a friend of mine. Have you heard of Zach Courtland?” Deanna was quiet for a beat. Then she snapped her fingers. “Was he the one in the Calvin Klein ads?” “That’s him.” “Wow. She’s married to him? He’s…hot.” Well, this conversation had taken a turn Lucky didn’t like. Not one little bit.

Often, the reason we’re so quick to judge other women with decisions different from our own is that we aren’t completely comfortable with our own choices. The woman with a full-time office job looks down on the stay-at-home mom while battling her own guilt about not attending every class party and field trip. The stay-at-home mom judges the woman working long hours while at the same time struggling with her own sense of identity and purpose.

Getting good grades and being accepted to a respectable four-year college topped my priority list. My focus on school was a side effect of battling stage-four ICGC, also known as immigrant child guilt complex. This is a chronic disorder that affects only children of immigrants, who experience a constant gnawing guilt for the multitude of sacrifices their parents made to bring them to the United States. There is no cure for ICGC, but treatments include making your mom and dad proud. I knew as a teen that my parents had gone to great lengths to give me a better life, and killing my brain cells didn't seem like the most thoughtful way to return the favor.

Truth doesn’t weigh you down with guilt and despair; it lifts you up with hope and joy. I love how Jesus said, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and YOU WILL FIND REST FOR YOUR SOULS. For My yoke is EASY and My burden is LIGHT" (Matthew 11: 29-30).

I pull back from my phone slightly and look at it askance. She did promise me there would be no more guilt trips, but let’s face it, if it were possible to make a living running a guilt travel agency, Mom would be rich. She can send me on a round-the-world guilt cruise on two minutes’ notice. If I complain, she’ll tell me that it isn’t a guilt trip; it’s a guilt journey. I should know the difference; I’m in college now.

Ah, guilt. One of the most painful human emotions that one can experience. Even without the burden of an illness, guilt is a part of life. But so many who live with a chronic condition feel intense guilt. When I had first found out that I was pregnant with my son, the very first emotion that kicked in wasn't pure joy or excitement, there were not any happy tears shed from me. My very first thought when I saw the positive pregnancy test was "What kind of mom am I going to be? What if my child grows up to hate me because I can't do everything he'll want to do?" Guilt is such a common emotion that surrounds us. Even those who aren't parents experience it in other ways, guilt over not being able to work anymore, guilt over not getting the chores finished, and the list can go on and on. It can turn into a relentless cycle of self-blame. There is something important to remember here, when guilt decides to sneak up on you. You did not ask for any of this. None of this is in your control, it is not your fault. I do not care if you have to repeat this out loud over and over again to make it stick, but I want you to know that you are still awesome, despite these shitty illnesses.

Daniel.” “Ma.” “Are you well?” She was angry. If the straight-to-voicemail treatment for the last week hadn’t tipped me off, her tone now was a dead giveaway. “I’m great,” I lied. “And how are you?” “Fine.” I laughed, silently. If she heard me laugh, she’d have my balls. “Did you get my messages?” “Yes. Thank you for calling.” I waited for a minute, for her to say more. She didn’t. “I leave you twenty-one messages, three calls a day, and that’s all you got for me?” “I’m not going to apologize for needing some time to cool off and I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Who do you think I am? Willy Wonka? You missed my birthday.” She sniffed. And these weren’t crocodile tears either. I’d hurt her feelings. Ahh, there it is. The acrid taste of guilt. “Ma . . .” “I don’t ask for a lot. I love you. I love my children. I want you to call me on my birthday.” “I know.” I was clutching my chest so my heart didn’t fall out and bleed all over the grass. “What could have been so important that you couldn’t spare a few minutes for your mother? I was so worried.” “I did call you—” “Don’t shit on a plate and tell me it’s fudge, Daniel. You called after midnight.” I hadn’t come up with a plausible lie for why I hadn’t called on her birthday, because I wasn’t a liar. I hated lying. Premeditated lying, coming up with a story ahead of time, crafting it, was Seamus’s game. If I absolutely had to lie, I subscribed to spur-of-the-moment lying; it made me less of a soulless maggot. “That’s true, Ma. But I swear I—” “Don’t you fucking swear, Daniel. Don’t you fucking do that. I raised you kids better.” “Sorry, sorry.” “What was so important, huh?” She heaved a watery sigh. “I thought you were in a ditch, dying somewhere. I had Father Matthew on standby to give you your last rights. Was your phone broken?” “No.” “Did you forget?” Her voice broke on the last word and it was like being stabbed. The worst. “No, I sw—ah, I mean, I didn’t forget.” Lie. Lying lie. Lying liar. “Then what?” I grimaced, shutting my eyes, taking a deep breath and said, “I’m married.” Silence. Complete fucking silence. I thought maybe she wasn’t even breathing. Meanwhile, in my brain: Oh. Shit. What. The. Fuck. Have. I. Done. . . . However. However, on the other hand, I was married. I am married. Not a lie. Yeah, we hadn’t had the ceremony yet, but the paperwork was filed, and legally speaking, Kat and I were married. I listened as my mom took a breath, said nothing, and then took another. “Are you pulling my leg with this?” On the plus side, she didn’t sound sad anymore. “No, no. I promise. I’m married. I—uh—was getting married.” “Wait a minute, you got married on my birthday?” Uh . . . “Uh . . .” “Daniel?” “No. We didn’t get married on your birthday.” Shit. Fuck. “We’ve been married for a month, and Kat had an emergency on Wednesday.” Technically, not lies. “That’s her name? Cat?” “Kathleen. Her name is Kathleen.” “Like your great aunt Kathleen?” Kat wasn’t a thing like my great aunt. “Yeah, the name is spelled the same.” “Last month? You got married last month?” She sounded bewildered, like she was having trouble keeping up. “Is she—is she Irish?” “No.” “Oh. That’s okay. Catholic?” Oh jeez, I really hadn’t thought this through. Maybe it was time for me to reconsider my spur-of-the-moment approach to lying and just surrender to being a soulless maggot. “No. She’s not Catholic.” “Oh.” My mom didn’t sound disappointed, just a little surprised and maybe a little worried. “Daniel, I—you were married last month and I’m only hearing about it now? How long have you known this woman?” I winced. “Two and a half years.” “Two and a half years?” she screeched...

When Herkamer tells her he hates her, she cries, telling him that maybe someday she won’t be home when he wants her. Poor Herkamer is devastated. His abandonment, terror and separation anxiety are triggered. He rushes to his mom, feeling terrible guilt. His awareness of his anger is completely lost. His anger has been converted into guilt.

One positive move would be for managers to seek out qualified female candidates to hire and promote. They can also invest more in the recruiting of these female candidates plus their mentoring and helping them get the experience they need. The battle between the stay-at-home moms and the career moms needs to stop. Each group should stop judging each other and causing guilt trips. Those women who have decided to stay at home and raise a family should not be looked down upon by the career women. Career women with families need not feel like the stay-at-home mothers and feminism both are making them feel guilty. Each group needs to be respectful of the other and their contributions. As more women attain senior positions of leadership, things will change. These women will raise the ceiling and the floor. This book was written to encourage women to dream big. It is also hoped that men will do their part to support women in their careers and in the workplace. While many women may not be focused on getting to the top, if more women lean in then conditions for all women will improve. Sheryl Sandberg looks forward to a world where her children and others, both boys and girls, will be able to make the choice of what to do with their lives without obstacles, both internal and external, slowing them down.

As it stands now we are all told that breastfeeding is the ONLY option for feeding your child, if you actually love that child and ever want them to have more than a third-grade level reading ability. If you don’t breastfeed your baby you might as well just drop it off immediately at your local prison, because that is where it’s going to end up anyway, with such a horrible start to its life. Breastfeeding is beautiful and natural and the best and only socially acceptable way to nourish your baby. It is the most natural thing on the planet, you see. Fast-forward to a severely sleep-deprived, hormone-riddled new mom whose baby is not latching on correctly. If maybe perhaps she had been warned that breastfeeding would not necessarily be easy-peasy, then maybe perhaps she wouldn’t have to add “severe guilt” and “feelings of extreme failure as a woman and mother” to her already long list of postpartum difficulties. So say it with me now: “Breastfeeding is really f’n hard.” Repeat it to yourself, even as you attend classes and read books.

How do I find joy in my homeschool journey? The answer is quite simple. I accept lots of God's grace. Grace to make mistakes. Grace to take a nap when I am exhausted. Grace to not feel guilty. Without His abundant provision of grace, I would be depleted, discouraged, and dissatisfied. Instead, I place all my trust in His direction and I embrace my calling as a homeschool mom. His grace has set me free from worry, fear, doubt, and guilt and I am overflowing with joy. Praise God!

Homeschooling is not a race ... You will not get behind nor do you have to live with guilt that you feel the need to catch up.