To Moms in the Storm: You're Not Alone

I want to write this while I still remember what it felt like—because, honestly, it was that hard. Now that things are better, I’m starting to forget how painful those moments were. But I know many moms are still in it. If that’s you, this is for you.

My daughters are now 21 and 18. But not long ago, I was drowning in fear, guilt, and exhaustion—especially with my youngest. There were days she didn’t want to live. There were nights I cried myself to sleep, wondering if I’d failed as a mom.

If you're in a place where your daughter is struggling—with school, with her emotions, with you—I want you to know this: You are not alone. You are not crazy. And you are not a bad mom.

“What happened? I thought I did everything right.”

I asked myself that too.

I’m a single mom with a PhD. I work hard. I tried to be present, supportive, and involved. But when my daughters became teens, especially my youngest during the pandemic years, everything turned upside down.

There were tantrums, shut doors, missed school, ER visits, and suicide assessments. My daughter told me she hated me. She blamed me for her pain. And honestly? I was angry too. I wanted to scream, cry, and disappear.

There were days I had work deadlines, groceries in the car, and snow on the road—but instead, I was sitting in an ER, scared and helpless. This wasn’t the motherhood I imagined.

And then came a strange kind of comfort:

I remember watching Superstore on Netflix—there’s a scene where the store manager vents about her teenage daughter, and her boss just shrugs and says,

“Are you stupid? She’s a teenager. That’s what teenagers do.”
And she just stares at him like, Wait, really? That’s it?

I laughed so hard—because it was true. Painful. And true.

A colleague once told me,

“Your daughter will be so lovable again. Just wait about ten years.”

And my boyfriend’s parents—who raised three boys and one girl—said the boys were easy, but the girl?

“She hated everything and everyone for a few years.”

These weren’t solutions, but they were lifelines. Tiny moments that reminded me I wasn’t the only mom in the storm.

“But I still had to get myself out of survival mode.”

That’s when I realized:

You can't help someone else if you're drowning too.

Just like you can’t pour from an empty cup, you can’t carry your child out of pain if your own mind is sinking. I had to help myself first.

I started listening to Dhamma talks from monks. One teaching hit me hard:

“You have to have peace in your own heart before you can give peace to others.”

That changed everything.

I stopped reacting with anger. I started walking away when things got too heated. I reminded myself that I don’t have to fix everything right now. I can offer space. I can offer love. I can just be here—and that’s enough.

I began working with my mind.

I practiced sending loving-kindness to my daughter silently, even when she pushed me away. I said to myself:

“May you be free from pain. May you be safe. May you feel loved.”

When things got really hard, I would close my eyes and dedicate any small good deed I had done that day—a kind word, a donation, a meal—to anyone I may have hurt in the past (in this life or before). I asked for forgiveness. Not out of guilt, but out of clarity and healing.

Buddhism teaches that nothing happens randomly. So instead of asking, Why is this happening to me? I asked, How can I grow through this?
I reminded myself:

You can only control your own actions. Do your best—and let go of the rest.

You are not a failure. You’re in a storm.

Teenage years can feel like emotional earthquakes—for them and for us. Even if you're educated, spiritual, or doing your best—it can still feel impossible.

But you don’t have to do it alone. Find your village, even if it’s just one friend. If you have access to a meditation center, go. Sit in silence. Ask for nothing. Just breathe.

If you’re open to it, try offering loving-kindness to yourself first:

“May I be strong. May I have peace. May I love without losing myself.”

Final thought:

I used to think that being a good mom meant fixing everything. Now I know:

Being a good mom starts with managing your own mind.

You’re not alone, mama. And you’re doing better than you think.