“You’re All I Could Be, & I’m All You Could’ve Been”: An Analysis on Mother/Daughter Relationships

By Stella Violet

As a woman I’m taught to support and empathize with other women. Forgiving them for their mistakes and remembering that at the end of the day, we are one in the same.

But, as a daughter, I can’t help but scream out to this undeniable anger and frustration held so closely in my chest.

How could a woman, let alone my mother, treat me, her daughter in such a way? 

She wishes she could have done better, the same way my grandma did before. It’s a never-ending cycle, a curse that’s creeping into my hands, begging me to do the same.

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I grew up in a suburban wonderland, filled with a giant backyard and endless possibilities. I had two loving parents who only wished the best for me. 

It was the most beautiful ten years of my life. 

My mother would play pretend all day until the sun went down. And, we’d draw silly pictures while I’d sit in awe of her artistic talent and creative mind. 

She has always been my best inspiration and the reason I try so fucking hard. 

When I got a bit older she told me the real reason she quit her job when I was four. 

To live out the childhood she never had, with me. 

Sure she lost a few years working for corporate America, but to this day she say that those were the best years of her life. 

Her mother did the best she could, and she knows that. But, my mom needed more. 

Sometimes I wonder what kind of mother she would’ve been if she had a friend or mother like me when she was younger…

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My dad’s presence was always a gift, he wasn’t around much. 

When I saw him my eyes would light up while my mother sat there exhausted, watching him lift me into his arms after work. 

She’ll say she doesn’t care, but she does.

It was never the fact that I loved my dad more, just the fact that it felt like Christmas in his arms. 

I, now, feel so guilty about the way we’d look down on her on his days off. 

Is this my fateful punishment? 

My mother used to sit back and braid my hair while telling me how similar we are. I used to take offense, and say “I am nothing like you.” 

But now, I don’t really know how to feel. Do I have your eyes, or short temper? 

Am I destined to spend the rest of my life married to someone I despise, I don’t know.  

In some ways, well most, I blame my father. For ruining the woman she could have been.

Maybe she would have been an actress on the silver screen or living by the ocean with the love of her life.  

But then again, she sealed her fate. 

By thirteen I learned to resent her. We’d fight at least three times a day, almost always about nothing in particular. 

I don’t know if it was jealousy, too much love or all the inbetweens. 

She was raising me alone at this point, and I felt like my lack of paternity caused me to lash out. She was never angry with me, but with herself. 

How could she love a man who treated her so terribly? And, what will she do now that he’s gone.

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As I got older books turned into television shows and going outside was only for smoking a cigarette secretly on the roof. 

I found comfort in watching dysfunctional families and repeating to myself that life couldn’t be as bad as theirs.

I’d try to talk to my mom, but after a while it was better to lock myself in my room after school than to start another pointless argument. 

“You should have never had me in the first place,” and “I never want to have children,” were phrases thrown around often. 

Empty words that I knew would wound my mother.

But, what I failed to remember was that she knew all my tricks. She was the one who taught me. 

She knew all of my triggers and biggest insecurities. Using them to her advantage, unintentionally or not. 

We didn’t break the cycle. 

I was a teenage girl and I hated my mother. 

She was the last person on Earth I wanted to become.

Still from Gilmore Girls

My dad sat unphased, watching us like he’d watch the Denver Broncos every Sunday. Listening to my endless phone calls, 400 miles away, consoling me like he did his new wife. 

I couldn’t get angry at him. He was too far away and much more like a distant friend whom I’d call and complain to every few months. 

But, my mother. 

She was just the right amount of close and bitter to unleash my innermost feelings on. 

She didn’t deserve that, but neither did I.

My mother loves telling this story about how every time she went to her great aunt's house as a kid and how her sister would lock her in the basement. 

Nobody would notice she was gone until it was time to leave. She’d come out crying and nobody would care. 

What if someone did? What if someone opened the door and showed her unconditional love? 

Would that have made her kinder? 

Maybe I didn’t realize all those years ago that it’s her first time living, her first time being a mom. 

And, maybe she didn’t realize it was my first time being not only a daughter, but a human being. 

She’d tell me how cruel she was to her mother in her youth and how much she regretted it when she died. 

Will I regret the pain I’ve caused? 

As I get older, we get closer. I didn’t spend as much time with her as I should have in my teenage years. 

But, she didn’t stop me. 

Maybe she was letting me grow on my own, but maybe sometimes I still need my mom. 

Maybe sometimes I wish I could just crawl into her bed and tell her the world is too scary and people aren’t always as they seem. 

And, maybe I wish she’d tell me everything is going to be okay. 

Even though I’d never admit it, I see our similarities and idiosyncrasies in everything I do. Sometimes I raise my voice like my mother or kick in my sleep like she used to do when I was a kid. 

She’s met me with so much anger, yet blessed me with endless love. 

It’s hard to hate someone when they’re all you could become. And, it’s hard to love someone when they’re all you could be.