Finding My Way Back: Overcoming the Pain of Discarded Love

There’s a pattern I’ve come to recognize with my mother, a haunting refrain that has echoed throughout my life. It first began when I was a child, and the latest episode unfolded just a few years ago, around the time COVID-19 began to grip the world. This pattern, though masked by different circumstances each time, always ends the same way, leaving me with a visceral reaction I’ve struggled to understand.

But now, as I look back, I realize it’s rooted in a deep, painful feeling of abandonment; a feeling that I could be discarded just as easily as the pets she allowed us to have growing up.

I remember each one of those pets vividly: the excitement my siblings and I felt when we managed to convince our parents to let us keep a dog, a cat, or a bird. But that excitement was always short-lived.

Time and again, those animals would mysteriously disappear, given away to a stranger passing by selling brooms, or taken to some distant part of the city and left behind, never to return. I can still see the image of our dog, his eyes full of confusion and fear as he was driven away, with my baby sister next to him, my father driving and my mother in the passenger seat, never knowing what he did wrong.

But that dog, in a twist of fate that still astonishes me, found his way back home. Determined, loyal, and brimming with a love she couldn’t understand, he returned around 3am. To her dismay, he came back, as if to remind her that some bonds can’t be broken so easily, that some love is too strong to discard.

That moment, when he came back, was bittersweet. It filled me with a mix of emotions I couldn’t quite untangle; relief, joy, and a deep, lingering sadness. It was as if he had done what I, as a child, could never do: returned to a place where he was no longer wanted, still hoping for acceptance, for love. But even then, his return didn’t change her heart. Eventually, he was sent away again, this time for good.

As we grew older and left home, and after my father passed away, my mother’s loneliness seemed to intensify. She’d adopt a new cat, only for it to “run away” several months later. I knew, deep down, that the cat hadn’t run away; she had gotten rid of it, just as she always had when the novelty of care wore off.

The most recent event involved a parakeet. My mother had pestered my brother for months to get her one, and despite my pleas not to bring another animal into her life, she finally got it. I tried to explain my concerns, the worry that this too would end in heartbreak; for the bird, and for me, but she dismissed my words. And then, one day, during a casual conversation over the phone, she told me she had sold the little bird.

I was furious.

My anger exploded in a way that shocked even me. I told her off, unable to understand in that moment why the fate of this bird had triggered such an intense reaction. But now, after months of reflection, the truth has become clear: it wasn’t just about the bird. It was about a lifetime of feeling like those little creatures, valued only when I was convenient, but easily discarded when I became a "burden."

I’ve always felt her resentment simmering beneath the surface, as if she regretted that she couldn’t rid herself of me as easily as she did those animals. Her words, spoken in anger; “Ojalá me hubiera sentado en ti cuando naciste” (“I wish I would have sat on you when you were born”), cut deeper than any knife.

And though she never physically got rid of me, her emotional absence made me wish, at times, that she had followed through on that cruel wish.

There’s a pain in realizing that the person who should have loved and nurtured you the most was the source of so much emotional turmoil. That pattern, repeating itself through different circumstances, always carried the same underlying message: I was only good enough as long as I didn’t become a problem, just like those pets.

But I’m coming to realize that these feelings of abandonment and rejection, while painful, are part of a larger journey toward healing. They are the wounds I carry from my mother, wounds that have shaped me in ways I am only now beginning to understand. And as I sift through the pain, I find a glimmer of hope; a belief that I can break this cycle, that I can heal these wounds, and in doing so, become whole again.

This journey isn’t easy, and there are days when the sadness feels overwhelming.

But there’s a strength within me, a quiet resilience that refuses to be discarded. I am not that little bird, or that lost dog. I am not an afterthought, to be cast aside when I become inconvenient. I am worthy of love and care, not because I am perfect, but because I am human. And as I continue to heal, I hold onto the hope that I can find peace, even in the shadow of this deep, abiding wound.

Now, as I work through these memories, I understand that this cycle doesn’t have to define me. I’m learning that I don’t have to keep returning to places that hurt me, hoping for a love that isn’t there. Instead, I can create new spaces for myself; safe, loving spaces where I am cherished and accepted for who I am.

This is the path I am choosing now, the path of healing, where I no longer wait for the love I deserve but seek it out within myself.

And though the wounds are still there, I’m beginning to find peace in the knowledge that I am not that lost dog, nor am I the discarded pet. I am someone who has the power to heal, to create a life where love is abundant and unwavering, starting with the love I give to myself.