The Neck and the Heart

My mother is the neck—and the heart—of my family.

When my recent relationships needed repair, she was the one who reached out. That surprised me. We had perfected the art of shunning. Silence could stretch for so long as my Dad could withstand it. Pride could calcify into distance. And yet, when it mattered most, she texted me- "Why raise your daughter to be a lady, when you can raise your daughter to be a warrior."

Tonight, after an hour-long conversation—the kind that hadn’t happened organically in years—I remembered how central she was to my life before I “lost” her.

It is almost hard to have her back because of how completely I had to say goodbye before.

There is a grief that comes with death, and there is acceptance. But there is another kind of grief—the kind where the person is still walking around, still breathing, but no longer themselves. I experienced that kind. Watching her move through the world in a shell of who I knew her to be broke something in me. I didn’t grieve and move on. I fractured and scrambled for something to anchor me.

She was my rock for so long. My anchor. When I believed she was lost to me, I had a breakdown—not dramatic, not cinematic—just the quiet unraveling of someone who suddenly realizes the ground beneath her feet was love, and that ground is gone.

And yet, she has been sober for four years.

Tonight, I felt her again. Not the shell. Not the survival version. Her.

I thank you, Mom, for being my fighting spirit. You taught me to question. To be assertive. To stand up for the little guy. You were my first model of compassion with backbone. I grew up at a dinner table where you and Dad did not always agree—and that was a gift. I witnessed intelligent, passionate, compassionate dialogue. I learned that love does not require sameness.

You taught me how to be strong as a woman.

Asserting your thoughts at the table was one thing—but you ruled the house. “The man is the head, but the woman is the neck, and she can turn the head any way she wants.” I grew up laughing at that line, but I watched you live it. Strength without humiliation. Influence without domination. Power with warmth.

There was a time I lost you.

And when I lost you, I finally understood what you had been giving me all along—love, safety, reassurance, peace. I was angry for a long time. Angry at the loss. Angry at the helplessness. Angry that I needed you so much.

But I am forever grateful that you are back.

And I am unapologetic for my part in bringing you back.

I love you with my whole heart and soul. You are my angel standing by.

I still don’t have language big enough for what your love has meant to me. I’m underselling it even now. But I remember this: my middle sister and I used to argue over who got to sleep next to you after Dad left for work. We finally made an every-other-day system to keep it fair.

But truthfully?

We both just wanted to be close to you.

That was it.

We just wanted to be near our safe place.

And I still do.

I love you.

🌿 Good Beet Reflection: Lost and Found

Some relationships do not die — they disappear.

Sometimes slowly.

Sometimes dramatically.

Sometimes in a way that leaves you questioning your own memory of what once was.

Reflection Questions

Have you ever “lost” someone who was still alive?

What did that loss feel like in your body?

When you think about your anchor person — who comes to mind?

What did they give you that you didn’t realize you depended on?

Is there someone in your life who has come back — in sobriety, in healing, in clarity, in repentance, in growth?

What emotions coexist inside that reunion? Relief? Hesitation? Joy? Guardedness?

What part did you play in the repair — even if it was just refusing to fully let go?

If you could sit beside your “safe place” again — what would you say now that you couldn’t say then?

Gentle Practice

Tonight, consider writing a short letter to the person who was once your anchor.

It does not have to be sent.

It only has to be honest.

You might begin with:

“When I lost you…”

“What I never told you was…”

“I was angrier than I knew because…”

“What your love gave me was…”

Healing does not erase what happened.

It honors that something mattered deeply enough to grieve.

And sometimes — if we are fortunate —

the neck turns again,

the heart beats steady,

and what was lost is found in a new way.

🌿