Navigating the Other: The Cliches of Motherly Grief
Whenever I think of “motherless girls”, my mind always inevitably strays towards the classic Disney trope of girl-without-mother. Think Hilary Duff in A Cinderella Story, or Amanda Bynes in Sydney White, amongst many more. I’m told that this is a common response to grief or trauma – that, even when confronted with a situation that is entirely our own, we tend to pass it off as someone else’s life, someone else’s problem. The irony of the Disney trope is that growing up in reality, I only knew one other girl with only one parent living. I suppose this helped to contribute to my sense of “Otherness” from an early age and has been a continuous thread which stitches the tapestry of my life. If anything, and whether I like it or not (there are many layers to this): growing up as, and forever being, a girl-without-mother has become somewhat a defining character trait. This trait is malleable, and has morphed over time to represent, and be represented by, different things. Again, a duality is constantly occurring: grief is multi-layered; multifaceted; manifesting itself in various shadowy corners of my existence; but always present and an integral part.
My name is Ianthe (she/her) and I’m 25 years old. I lost my mother when I was 8. The nature of her death was traumatic in itself; she drowned in the sea when we were on holiday in Greece. Myself, my (then 4 year old) sister, my dad and my dad’s best friend were all present. Even writing this, my stomach is nagging, nudging me in discomfort. Naturally, a part of my squirming is due to revisiting this visceral, traumatic memory. A memory that I will never forget. However, I have come to realise that another part of this anxiety is related to you, the reader, as it always has been when I have had to relay this information in conversations or through any other medium. A particular source of anxiety is the way in which you will then view me. I understand this might sound conceited, or shallow, or maybe even narcissistic. But when you feel as though your whole life is defined by this instant anyway, to then have people judge you by it [however sympathetically] instead of the multifaceted person you are, can be draining, maddening and saddening.
My mother was called Susie. She was an (excellent) English and Drama teacher, living and breathing for the magic of the written word. She was petite, with a shock of dark hair and brown eyes. She was witty, loved to laugh, and so many people tell me that she radiated kindness, intelligence and vivacity. She was special, everyone said so. She loved Paganism and music and black cats and cooking. My mother was a vegetarian back when all you could get was tofu and beans. I share a lot of these interests. She and my dad dated from age 15, married at 19, and had me almost 20 years later, on account of them having so much fun, just the two of them. The romantic and tragic ideals of their story are not lost on me, and I think it’s important to note that – whilst she was the only mother I will ever have – she is also the only love my dad will ever have. He is still her husband. He always will be. Realising this has brought him a profound sense of comfort in recent years. She really was that special.
There are an awful lot of clichés bundled onto grieving - cliché because they hold a lot of truth. The idea that grief is not linear, does not follow any form of pattern or rule, is one that I truly believe in. The randomized chaos of grief renders it unpredictable. There have been times when I expected grief to hit me like a tonne of bricks: my school prom; graduating with the same degree as my mother; moving in with my boyfriend. It did not. Conversely, there are moments of longing and despair that washed over me in the way only grief can: finishing my Dissertation; getting my first cat; being told by my father that my roast carrots taste exactly the same as hers. These less tangible moments in life brought my mum’s absence into a much harsher light. I truly believe that – much like with love – it is the mundane, everyday moments that highlight a person’s significance. Reliance on clichés has become a subconscious imperative in my life. I perform rituals in trying to get close to my mum, like using her favourite mug to measure out ingredients when baking, which is something we did together. Only recently, I had a cry in WHSmiths upon trying to choose wrapping paper and cards I felt she would have liked. I feel it in every book I read, in every recipe I make, in every dress I choose to buy.
This isn’t to suggest I am under any illusion that if she were alive I would think of her so frequently when making everyday decisions; a classic cliché here being “absence makes the heart grow fonder”. However, over the years, the empty spaces in my life she would have occupied have multiplied, and the sense of “Otherness” has become more acute. When I was a child, it was all about my friends going shopping with their mums, of starting their period, of their mums simply being there. That is not to say that my dad wasn’t doing the best job he could; he was fantastic, taking every hormonal strop in his stride. Naturally though, the sense of Otherness - that I was “going without” - took hold as I entered my teenage years, manifesting in anger, confusion and lashing out. Those were really difficult years and I am equal parts ashamed of and desperately sorry for that angry teenager who just wanted to experience motherly love. I vividly remember going through her wardrobe for years after she died and hugging her dresses, which still smelt of her. I can still remember the smell, and how it enveloped me like a tenderly reciprocated hug.
Another cliché: we eventually learn to grow around our grief. As I shifted from child, to teenager, to invariably settled/unsettled young adult, so has my sense of self molded around grief. My sense of self is intertwined with the loss of my mother; I would not be myself without it, but equally, it is not and will never be the most defining aspect of my self. Becoming an adult has evermore added to my grief. Living with my boyfriend has brought my mother’s life into sharp focus for me. What was she like when she was my age? She and my dad would have been married 6 (!) years at this point, and she would have been teaching English. She would be about to meet her best friend Claire (my godmother and one of the best people I know). The shift from her being “Mummy” to “Susie”, a real, vibrant, unique person is something that I will never be able to experience, and that floors me.
I read a line in a book once that went something along the lines of “children who have lost a parent grow up fearing the world and its limitless possibilities”. Although I can attribute some of those feelings to generally being as neurotic as a whippet in a blizzard, there is a sense of foreboding that anything can happen suddenly, at anytime, that turns your world on its axis so violently. It shakes up everything you know. This has seeped itself into my fears as an adult. What started as phoning my dad repeatedly if it was 7:01 and he said he would be home at 7, has now morphed into intense fears regarding random accidents, interjections of fate and the likelihood of metaphorical lightening striking twice.
Luckily, I have fantastic women in my life that have helped to ease the Otherness. As previously mentioned, my mum’s best friend Claire repeatedly tells me that, as they were extensions of each other, she is more than equipped to provide me with opinions that would mirror my mum’s. Amongst the rubble of grief there were and are so many amazing people who helped; who talked through the impossible tangle of emotional threads until they almost made sense. So to all my family, friends, friends’ mums, mum’s friends, dad’s friends, teachers, step-in Aunties and Grannies, thank you for making this identity of clichés sit a bit more comfortably on my shoulders.
Navigating being motherless is a constant juxtaposition: it’s something I would change in a heartbeat, but at this stage I am molded around it. I picture it like trees growing around skeletons of bicycles long ago thrown into their branches. It is part of me, but it is not a defining trait. A final cliché: I know she would be proud, as I am part of her, and I am proud of my entire family for getting through this together. I have, and will continue to experience motherly love in so many corners of my life, and that makes me almost as lucky as those whose mothers are still here.
Written by Ianthe Huntington
Hi! My name is Ianthe (she/her), I'm 25 and from Bristol. I'm currently taking some time off work to figure out what I want to do with my life. My previous role was within the DWP as a Work Coach (ironically!). I love reading, fashion, Ancient History, cooking, and my cat, Parsnip. Please feel free to drop me a line if this article resonated with you at all! My insta is @i.anthe :)
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