At all the book readings so far I’ve been asked by another mother: “How did you overcome the shame?” The mom shame, specifically. You see, there’s a special kind of shame for moms who drink. Because it flies in the face of nature, of our instincts, of what is perceived to be most holy and imperative in our roles as nurturers, as caretakers, as *mothers*. As my friend said in my early days, there’s s special kind of vitriol saved for moms who drink.
This is how:
I listened to other women.
I talked more.
I wrote more.
I listened more.
I didn’t stop writing or talking.
I stopped seeking acceptance from those who hadn’t been there.
In other words, I stopped hiding. I put a voice to my story so that I could understand my story — it was in the talking and the writing that I came to the understanding, not before.
My book opens with the worst scene from my drinking, from my most painful moment as a mother, for a reason. While I want anyone who wants or needs this book to read it, I specifically want to speak to you, the mother, who thinks she is the absolute worst. I opened with that sentence because I want to look you in the eye, take you by the hand, and say, “YOU. I’ve got you. This is where we’re going now.
@brenebrown said, “Shame needs three things to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence, and judgment.” I can’t make you talk, but I can promise you that in my eyes, there is nothing but compassion. Nothing counts you out. No judgment.
I love you. I root for you. Keep going.