In this episode:
Sobriety helped me stop blaming my mom and start healing. This episode is about grief, generational pain, and the peace I found—without ever getting an apology.
Resources:
The Mastery of Love by Don Miguel Ruiz
Mother Hunger by Kelly McDaniel
Bottomless to Sober – Coaching, Classes, and Workshops
Transcript:
Hey y’all, welcome back to Bottomless to Sober, where we talk about recovery, healing—and in today’s episode—what it really means to grow into love. I’m Jessica Dueñas, and today’s episode is definitely a tender one. It’s about grief, it’s about love… and it’s about my mom.
May is coming up quickly, and here in the U.S., that means Mother’s Day is near. But also, it would have been my mother’s 86th birthday. Her memory has become this quiet, constant companion. It shows up in how I care for my daughter, in how I challenge old beliefs about beauty, and in all the ways love and loss blur together. I don’t know if it’s because her birthday is around the corner or because the grief is still so fresh—but she’s been on my mind nonstop.
One thing that’s struck me since she passed in January is this:
I loved her. Truly. Unconditionally.
And that kind of love wasn’t always there. It’s something I had to grow into—and something that sobriety made possible.
One of my favorite authors, Don Miguel Ruiz—best known for The Four Agreements—also wrote a book called The Mastery of Love. In it, he says, “Love has no obligations.” He talks about how real love doesn’t try to control or change. It simply accepts.
That was not always the case with my mom. I carried a lot of resentment toward her—for the shame I felt about my body, for my disordered eating, and eventually, for my drinking. She was proud of my accomplishments, yes—but I never felt fully accepted.
I remember one middle school picture day. I had picked out a dress I was excited to wear. My mom looked at me and said it was too tight—and then added, “You don’t want to look like una vaca.” A cow.
I bit my cheek to hold back tears, changed into a sweater, and posed for the photo—expressionless. I wasn’t just trying to shrink my body—I was shrinking my spirit.
That sense of “not enough” stayed with me for years. First, I tried to manage it through food. Then, I numbed myself with alcohol. And I blamed my mom for a long time.
But then I got sober. And sobriety gave me the space to reflect—and with reflection came clarity.
I was reading Mother Hunger by Kelly McDaniel, and one line hit me like a mic drop:
“Many women who fail to nurture their daughters were never nurtured themselves.”
That was it. My mom didn’t carry my wounds because she didn’t know another way. The beliefs she held were inherited. She brought them with her when she immigrated to the U.S.
And here’s the thing: my mom didn’t have the luxury of therapy or journaling. She had to survive—raise kids, keep going. Healing was not in her vocabulary.
Her words still hurt. They caused real damage. But with recovery, I saw that she was doing the best she could. And no, that doesn’t excuse the harm—but it helps explain it.
That understanding helped soften my resentment. I let go of the blame. Because blame was never going to heal me. Healing came from recognizing that I wasn’t broken—I had been shaped. And she had been shaped, too.
Eventually, I stopped trying to change her. I stopped needing her to apologize. I started to accept her.
And listen—before I go any further, I want to say this:
What I’m sharing is my story. This was my path to peace. Acceptance worked for me. But that doesn’t mean it’s right for everyone.
You might not be in a place where acceptance of a parent—or anyone who’s harmed you—is possible or safe. And that’s okay. This isn’t a prescription. You don’t owe anyone acceptance if it comes at the cost of your peace or safety.
I’ve cut off other family members completely. So I get it. Sometimes no contact is what keeps us safe. Boundaries are necessary. You are allowed to be exactly where you are.
But for me—accepting my mom helped me put down what wasn’t mine to carry. It helped me grieve with a full heart.
One of the last times I visited her in Costa Rica, we were having coffee and she made a typical comment about a woman passing by—something like, “She really takes care of herself.” The old me would’ve launched into a speech about body positivity.
This time, I sipped my coffee, rolled my eyes gently, and changed the subject.
Because it’s not my job to educate or fix her. I just needed to love her. And that was freeing.
When she passed this January, the grief was sharp. But also—there was gratitude. Because I had learned to love her as she was, while she was still here.
That was a gift. And now, the love continues.
With my daughter Amara, I hope to pass on something different. I hope she never feels like she has to earn my love by shrinking, overachieving, or performing. I hope she knows she’s enough, just by being her.
I hope she sees me love myself—not because I’m perfect, but because I’m enough.
That, to me, is what true love looks like.
Reflection Questions
If you want to sit with this topic a little longer, here are a few reflection questions for you:
- What kinds of love have you had to grow into over time?
- Can you remember a moment that shaped how you saw yourself—and are you still carrying it?
- What beliefs or behaviors have been passed down in your family that you’re ready to question—or break?
- Where in your life could letting go of the need to “fix” someone lead to more peace?
- What kind of love do you want to pass on—to your children, your community, or even to your younger self?
Thanks for being here with me today. If this episode moved something in you, I’d love to hear from you. Leave a review, share the episode, or just take a moment to reflect.
Until next time, stay grounded, stay loving, and remember:
You are enough.
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