#wgitachi

Подробнее о видео

I was seven when I found my mother hanging in our basement. She left a note that said "I can't love you the way you deserve." My father never spoke about it. He just packed us up and moved across the country, like we could outrun the ghost of her words.

Growing up, I became obsessed with understanding love. I read every psychology book, studied every relationship, analyzed every emotion. I was determined to crack the code my mother couldn't. When I got pregnant, I thought I had finally figured it out. I would be the mother who loved so fiercely that my child would never question their worth.

I documented everything. Every kick in my belly, every ultrasound, every moment of pregnancy. I was building evidence of my love before she was even born. I painted her nursery myself, sang to her every night, read parenting books until my eyes burned. This child would never doubt she was wanted.

The day she was born, I waited for that rush everyone talks about. The overwhelming flood of maternal love that's supposed to hit you the moment you see your baby. I held her tiny body, looked into her eyes, and felt... nothing. Just clinical observation. She's healthy. She's breathing. She's mine. But no love.

I convinced myself it would come later. Maybe I was just exhausted from labor. Maybe hormones needed time to kick in. I went through all the motions perfectly – feeding, changing, rocking, singing. I took thousands of photos to prove to myself that I was a loving mother. But inside, I felt like I was babysitting a stranger's child.

Months passed. She would smile at me, and I would smile back because that's what mothers do. She would cry, and I would comfort her because that's what the books said. But there was no emotional connection, no maternal instinct, just mechanical responses to her needs.

The worst part was how good I was at faking it. Other mothers would comment on how natural I looked, how devoted I seemed. If only they knew I was performing love instead of feeling it. I started wondering if this was what happened to my mother – if she had felt this same terrifying emptiness.

When my daughter turned two, she started saying "I love you" constantly. Every morning, every bedtime, random moments throughout the day. Each time, the words hit me like stones. I would say them back automatically, but they felt like lies leaving my mouth. How could I love someone I felt nothing for?

I became convinced I was a sociopath. I researched personality disorders, took online tests, analyzed my childhood trauma. Maybe my mother's death had broken something fundamental in me. Maybe I was genetically incapable of love. Maybe I would end up just like her.

The panic attacks started when my daughter turned three. Every time she said "I love you," my chest would tighten, my vision would blur, and I would have to excuse myself to hyperventilate in the bathroom. I was terrified she would grow up feeling unloved, just like I had. The cycle was repeating itself.

I finally broke down to my husband. "I don't love her," I sobbed. "I take care of her, I protect her, I would die for her, but I don't feel love." He held me while I confessed my deepest shame – that I was becoming my mother.

That's when he said something that shattered my world: "What if that IS love? What if love isn't a feeling – what if it's a choice you make every single day?" He reminded me of every 3 AM feeding, every fever I'd monitored, every scraped knee I'd kissed, every story I'd read, every nightmare I'd chased away.

The next morning, my daughter climbed into my lap and said "I love you, Mommy." Instead of waiting for a feeling that might never come, I looked at her – really looked at her – and saw three years of my choices reflected in her bright eyes.

"I love you too," I said, and for the first time, I meant it.