Healing After a Lifetime of Hurt: Motherhood in My 40s
Motherhood is powerful — but not in the Pinterest-perfect, pastel-filtered way the internet likes to sell it. It’s powerful because it drags up every shadow, every scar, every part of yourself you thought you’d buried under “I’m fine” and late-night snacks. Becoming a mum isn’t just nappies and night feeds. For women like me — women who’ve survived trauma, lived with anxiety, wrestled with grief — motherhood is like cracking open a time capsule you didn’t know you’d buried. Suddenly, you’re not only raising a baby, you’re raising yourself.
When I became a mum at 42, people assumed the story started there — with the miracle pregnancy, the NICU weeks, the late-night cuddles. But the truth is, my story started decades earlier, in the places that hurt. I didn’t walk into motherhood with a clean slate. I carried old wounds, unresolved pain, and a lifetime of believing maybe I wasn’t cut out for joy. What I didn’t know then is that motherhood would give me both the hardest and the most healing work of my life.
Motherhood didn’t erase my past. It didn’t sweep away the agoraphobia, the exhaustion, the years of feeling small and invisible. What it did was hand me a tiny, squirming reason to face it all. Ruby didn’t just make me a mum. She made me braver. Because when a human so dependent, so precious, so miraculous is placed in your arms (or in my case, in an incubator for weeks before I could even hold her properly), something shifts. You realise you’re not just showing up for them — you’re showing up for yourself, too.
Being a mother over 40 means I bring with me years of survival, perspective, and hard-earned grit. It means I parent differently — less concerned about what the world thinks, more concerned with what she feels. I don’t have time for the noise. I don’t measure our worth by milestones or Instagram grids. I measure it by the moments we survive together, the healing we stitch into the fabric of our everyday, the laughter that cracks through even the hardest days.
So no — motherhood didn’t magically fix me. But it is healing me, little by little, in ways I never expected. Not because of a therapist’s office or a ten-step program, but because every day with Ruby hands me a new mirror, a new chance to choose differently. The healing comes in the midnight feeds, the mornings I get out of bed when I’d rather stay hidden, the way she forces me to show up even when my mind whispers otherwise. As I raise Ruby, I’m raising myself. I’m becoming the mum I needed, the woman I dreamed of, and the person I never thought I’d get the chance to be.
Here’s what healing after a lifetime of hurt really looks like — messy, hilarious, exhausting, and miraculous — all while raising the baby who changed everything.
“You don’t have to be healed to be a good mum. You just have to be willing.”
1. I Stopped Pretending I Was Okay
For years, I was the master of “I’m fine.” Smile on, cracks hidden, carrying on like everything was normal while I felt like I was falling apart inside. If faking okay were a job, I’d have had tenure.
But then motherhood came along — and there’s no bluffing your way through 3 a.m. feeds with tears streaming into your tea. Ruby doesn’t need a mum who pretends. She needs one who’s real. So I started naming my feelings instead of swallowing them. I let the hard days be hard instead of painting over them.
And here’s the lesson: feelings don’t last forever. They arrive, they shake things up, and then they move on. By being honest about that, I’m showing Ruby that it’s okay to feel everything — and that you don’t have to wear a mask to be loved.
2. I Rewrote What Love Looks Like
When you’ve been hurt, love can get tangled up with fear, doubt, and a million second-guesses. For me, it had become complicated — something to tiptoe around rather than trust. But the day I held Ruby, all that noise went quiet. Suddenly love wasn’t this puzzle to solve. It was simple: soft touches, patient words, and showing up again and again, even when you’re exhausted and smell faintly of baby spew.
And here’s the twist — motherhood hasn’t just taught me how to love her. It’s teaching me how to love me. To speak gently to myself, to be patient with my own stumbles, to show up for myself on the days I’d rather hide. Ruby gets unconditional love from me… and I’m finally learning I deserve that same kind of love too.
3. I Allowed Myself to Be Seen
For years, I became an expert at disappearing. Not literally — I was still here, still breathing — but emotionally and physically, I hid. It felt safer to keep the world at arm’s length than risk being judged, misunderstood, or hurt all over again.
Then motherhood barged in, and hiding wasn’t an option anymore. Suddenly I had midwives, doctors, lactation consultants, and other mums all up in my business. I had to talk. I had to ask questions. I had to let people see me — messy, scared, unshowered, and very much figuring it out.
And bit by bit, something shifted. The more I allowed myself to be seen, the more I discovered that being visible doesn’t always mean being rejected. Sometimes it means being accepted, supported, even celebrated. And that, for me, is healing in ways I never thought possible..
4. I Chose Connection Over Control
For most of my life, control felt like my armour. If I could plan every detail, keep everything in line, maybe I could protect myself from the chaos. But here’s the dirty little secret about control: it’s exhausting, and it’s lonely.
Then along came Ruby, who laughs in the face of any plan I try to make. The house? Messy. The schedule? A joke. My old self would’ve panicked, but I’m learning to let go. To sit in the mess, to shrug when the plan explodes, to laugh instead of spiral.
Because what actually matters isn’t the spotless floor or the perfect routine. It’s the connection. It’s her little giggle when I chase her around piles of laundry. It’s the joy we find in trying, not the control I lose in the process
5. I Broke Generational Patterns
Motherhood has a way of holding up a mirror — and not just the kind that reminds you your roots are showing. It forces you to notice the habits, the words, the reactions you grew up around. Some of those patterns deserve to be carried forward. Others? They need to be stopped in their tracks.
Every choice I make now — from the way I speak to Ruby, to how I comfort her, to what I do when I’m overwhelmed — is a chance to write a new script. Sometimes I nail it. Sometimes I catch myself halfway through an old reaction and have to pivot like a mum on So You Think You Can Dance. Either way, I’m paying attention.
And that’s the heart of it: I’m conscious. I’m not running on autopilot, just repeating what I learned without thought. I’m choosing, over and over, to give Ruby something different. To give myself something different. I don’t always get it perfect, but healing doesn’t start with perfection — it starts with awareness. And that’s where the cycle finally begins to break.
6. I Treated My Body With Kindness
For most of my life, my relationship with my body could best be described as “complicated.” I resented it, judged it, picked it apart like a tabloid headline. But then this same body went and carried Ruby. It grew her, protected her, fed her. It stayed awake through the endless nights, rocking and holding when I thought it couldn’t go another round.
Now I’m learning to see my body differently. To thank it instead of criticise it. To feed it because it deserves fuel, not punishment. To move it because stretching feels good, not because I want to erase myself. This body isn’t perfect — never has been — but it’s strong, soft, steady, and it’s hers as much as mine.
Kindness doesn’t come naturally every day, but it’s the practice. And every time I look at Ruby and remember, she came from me, it gets a little easier to offer my body the compassion it’s always deserved.
7. I Created Safe Spaces for Both of Us
Our home isn’t straight out of a magazine spread — unless the magazine is called Laundry Mountain Monthly. But it’s ours. And more than anything, I want it to feel safe. For Ruby. For me. For both of us.
That means giggles matter more than spotless floors. It means choosing connection over chaos-cleaning, and letting go of the idea that love needs matching throw pillows. Safety isn’t about perfect décor — it’s about knowing you can fall apart here and still be held.
Even our routines have become part of that safe space. Bedtime isn’t just for Ruby — it’s for me, too. The quiet rhythm of story, cuddle, breathe. Those moments wrap around us both, reminding me that safety doesn’t have to be grand. It can be simple, imperfect, and right here.
Because at the end of the day, our home doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s. It just needs to hold us. And it does.
8. I Made Peace With Messy Moments
Some days I channel Zen Mum — patient, calm, practically glowing with saint-like energy. Other days? I’m eyeing the clock at 9:07 a.m., wondering if it’s socially acceptable to start the bedtime countdown before lunch. Motherhood is nothing if not a rotating roster of personalities.
Healing, I’ve realised, doesn’t mean becoming endlessly calm or permanently put together. It means accepting that messy is the baseline. Some days I’ll laugh through the chaos. Some days I’ll cry in the pantry. And both are fine.
Because love doesn’t need silence or spotless routines to be real. It can be loud, sticky, chaotic, and still beautifully enough. In fact, that’s what makes it ours — not perfect, not polished, but honest and full of love anyway.
9. I Gave Myself Grace
For most of my life, I’ve been my own harshest critic. Every mistake felt like proof I wasn’t good enough, every stumble a reason to push harder. But motherhood has forced me to soften. To admit that I can’t heal overnight. That I won’t parent perfectly — not today, not ever.
So instead, I’m learning to give myself grace. To count the small wins, like getting out the door with both of us wearing pants. To remind myself that love matters more than perfection. That showing up — tired, messy, human — is enough.
Because at the end of the day, Ruby doesn’t need a flawless mum. She needs me. And I am enough, just as I am..
10. I Let Joy Be Bigger Than Fear
For most of my life, fear was the loudest voice in the room. It dictated what I did, what I avoided, how small I kept myself. Fear promised safety, but really it just built walls.
Then came Ruby — with her gummy smiles, her wild giggles, her way of turning a boring Tuesday into a dance party with Duplo as the audience. She reminds me, daily, that joy doesn’t have to wait for perfect circumstances. It lives in the silly games, the shared glances, the tiny moments that pile up into something bigger than fear ever was.
The whispers of worry haven’t disappeared — they still pop up like uninvited relatives at Christmas. But joy? Joy is louder now. And I’m finally letting it take up the most space.
11. I Remembered That I’m Worthy of Love Too
This is the lesson that underpins everything else. For years, I poured love outwards and left myself running on fumes. I believed love was something other people deserved more than me — that I had to earn it, prove myself, achieve enough to be worthy.
But motherhood cracked that lie wide open. Because the way I love Ruby — fully, freely, without conditions — that’s how I deserve to be loved too. Not someday. Not if I get everything right. Now. As I am.
So I’m learning to receive it. From myself, in gentler words and softer choices. From others, when I let my guard down enough to accept their care. And even from life itself, in the small moments that remind me I’m still here, still healing, still worthy.
And in that remembering, I’m not just raising Ruby. I’m raising me.
Final Words: Healing While Raising Tiny Humans Is Brave
If you’re a mum healing while parenting, I see you. It’s not easy to carry your own scars while you carry a child, but you’re doing it — and that is courage in its truest form. It’s brave. It’s messy. It’s beautiful.
You don’t need to have it all figured out. You don’t need spotless floors or perfect patience. You just need to keep showing up — tired, tender, human, but present. That’s where the magic is. That’s where healing takes root.
Because every moment you love your child while learning to love yourself? That’s the bravest kind of motherhood there is.
Want to reflect on your own journey?
Download Healing While Mothering — my free guide with 11 real-life shifts that carried me through the hardest days. Honest, gentle, and made for mums like us. Subscribe to Emma Deelight Now!
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