Growing up with Wonder Woman

Growing up, I always thought my mother had some kind of superpower, not entirely unlike Wonder Woman, my childhood heroine. She seemed utterly unfazed by anything life hurled her way. Financial stress? She would roll up her sleeves and make it happen. Family conflicts? A few quick words and the subject was closed. Personal setbacks?

They vanished under her icy stare. It was as if her bracelets could literally deflect any crisis, sending it ricocheting into oblivion before it could dent her armor. I watched her from the corner of my little world with admiration, convinced that behind those cool eyes and steady hands lay an unshakeable fortress of confidence and strength.

To my younger self, this was pure bravery. She never faltered, never showed a crack in her perfect façade. And for a time, although I was utterly afraid of her, I was comforted by the idea that I had a maternal superhero by my side.

But as I’ve grown older and begun to heal from the wounds of our relationship, I’ve realized that this unwavering strength came at a steep price. Wonder Woman might be able to catch bullets, but could she offer the softness of understanding that a vulnerable child needs? Over time, it dawned on me: her bracelets didn’t just deflect life’s external hardships, they also seemed to repel anything that resembled weakness, tenderness, or vulnerability, including mine.

Love became conditional, determined by how well I could keep my emotions in check. In my family home, tears were like arrows bouncing off her invisible shield. It was one thing to resist the world’s challenges. It was quite another to resist emotional closeness from one’s own child.

I used to see her stoicism as noble and heroic. Now, I see it through a more complicated lens.

There is a quiet cruelty to emotional withholding, a form of psychological defense that can leave deep scars. Growing up, I remember coming to her with fear, sadness, and confusion, only to watch my emotions fall at her feet like shattered glass. She rarely reached down to pick up the pieces. Instead, she would stand there, formidable and distant, as if my heartfelt pleas were no more than inconveniences to be brushed aside.

Even on those rare occasions when she tried to give a hug, I couldn’t fully relax into her arms. I would break down in tears, overwhelmed by the sudden and unfamiliar gesture of kindness, only to be met with her offended glare and the stinging words, “You’re too sensitive.” And just like that, she would walk away, never looking back to see the devastation left in her wake.

Unraveling the complexities of this mother-daughter bond has been painful, but also clarifying. I’ve had to accept difficult truths: I wanted more than a bulletproof guardian. I longed for someone who could show me that vulnerability wasn’t something to fear or mock. I yearned to see her armor crack just enough to let empathy seep through. Perhaps a tender glance, a meaningful embrace, or even a gentle “I know this hurts, I’m here” would have let me know my emotions mattered.

It’s taken me years to admit to myself that I was, and still am, wounded by her lack of warmth. Acknowledging that feels like a betrayal of the narrative I once clung to, the story where my mother was this fearless, flawless figure. Admitting my hurt made me feel weak in her eyes, as if I were failing her test of stoicism.

But I’ve come to understand that acknowledging a need for tenderness isn’t weakness. It’s human. It’s honest. And it’s a step toward the healing I deserve.

I’m learning to hold two truths at once.

Yes, my mother was my Wonder Woman, a figure of seemingly limitless strength and resilience. She confronted life’s challenges with a grim determination that demanded respect. I can appreciate that. I can admire the blueprint it provided for perseverance, though I am wary of letting that model morph into unhealthy over-functioning or relentless people-pleasing in my own life. But I can also name the painful reality of her emotional absence. She was distant, often cold, and at times cruel. Empathy never seemed to find a home between her acts of heroism and her insistence on self-sufficiency.

This dual recognition is what my healing journey is all about, making room for the entire story.

I don’t have to reject her strength to acknowledge the damage it did when wielded without compassion. I don’t have to dismiss the admiration I feel for her accomplishments just because she left an emotional void that still aches to be filled.

Instead, I am allowing all of these truths to coexist. I am learning that it is okay to want more than I received, to wish for a tenderness I may never know from her. I am honoring the impact these unmet needs had on me without undermining the small gifts she did provide, like resilience and resourcefulness.

In doing so, I am reclaiming my own sense of worth.

I am giving myself permission to feel deeply, to embrace my sensitivity, and to be my own source of empathy. I am learning to extend to myself the understanding and compassion I once yearned from her.

I am daring to be the kind of human I always wanted her to be, a person who lets others’ emotions land gently, who doesn’t see vulnerability as a threat, and who can hold softness and strength in the same hand.

This is how I heal: by refusing to reduce my mother to either a flawless hero or a heartless villain.

She can be both, a Wonder Woman who conquered the world and a human being who struggled to show love.

Allowing those dualities to exist frees me from the burden of trying to fit our story into a neat box.

Instead, I acknowledge its complexity and give my own humanity the softness, compassion, and understanding it deserves, something I can now provide for myself, even if she never will.