I Regret Asking For Help

The older I get, the more I think about the things that remain after people are gone.

Not just the things they leave behind in boxes or photographs, but the things they leave behind in other people.

A sentence someone said years ago.

A habit they passed down without realizing it.

A scar.

A lesson.

A memory.

Sometimes I wonder what I have left behind in my children.

I wonder which pieces of me they carry.

I wonder if they remember the good things or if the mistakes I made became louder than everything else.

There are some things I wish I could take back.

There are decisions I made when I was younger that I would give almost anything to revisit. I would sit beside the woman I used to be, take her hand, and tell her to stop.

Think.

Look at what is standing in front of you.

Look at your children.

Because some decisions don't stay in the past.

Some decisions grow up with you.

Some follow you for the rest of your life.

One of mine began with three words that seemed harmless at the time:

I need help.

I was struggling, and I turned to my mother.

What else was I supposed to do?

She was my mother. I believed mothers were supposed to be there when their children needed them. I believed asking for help didn't make me weak. I believed I was doing the responsible thing by admitting I couldn't handle everything alone.

I thought she would help me.

I thought she would help me get back on my feet.

I thought she would help with my children until I could get everything straightened out.

I never imagined that asking my mother for help would eventually give her the opportunity to take over raising my children.

At first, I probably didn't see it happening.

Maybe it happened slowly.

Maybe it was one decision at a time.

A little more control.

A little more authority.

A little more distance between me and my children.

Until one day I looked around and realized that somewhere along the way, I had handed over something I never intended to give away.

My place as their mother.

That is something I regret more than I know how to put into words.

I regret asking for help without understanding what it could cost me.

I regret the decisions I made afterward.

I regret the times I should have fought harder, spoken louder, or made a different choice.

I regret every mistake that brought my children closer to a system that eventually took them away from me.

The Department of Children and Families became part of our story.

Those words still carry a weight for me.

DCF.

Three letters that represent a chapter of my life I wish I could tear out of the book.

My children were taken.

And no matter how many explanations I could give, no matter how complicated the circumstances were, I still have to live with the fact that my decisions played a part in how we got there.

That is the hardest part.

It would be easier if I could point my finger at someone else.

It would be easier if I could say, "It was all their fault."

But life isn't always that simple.

I made mistakes.

I made choices that I wish I hadn't made.

And my children were the ones who had to live with the consequences.

That truth hurts.

It hurts in a way that doesn't disappear with time.

People sometimes think that when enough years pass, you stop thinking about the past.

I don't think that's true.

I think sometimes you simply become better at hiding the places that still hurt.

You can laugh.

You can work.

You can carry on with your life.

You can tell people you're okay.

And then one ordinary night, when everything is quiet, a memory can come rushing back and remind you that there are still pieces of your heart living somewhere in the past.

Mine are with my children.

I think about what they might remember.

I wonder if they remember me holding them.

I wonder if they remember my voice.

I wonder if they remember the silly moments, the laughter, the ordinary days that didn't seem important at the time.

I wonder if they remember being loved.

Or do they mostly remember the things that went wrong?

That question is one of the hardest things I carry.

Because I know I can't control their memories.

I can't tell them what they are supposed to remember.

I can't erase the parts of their childhood that I wish had been different.

I can't go backward and make better decisions for them.

I can't take the past out of their hands.

All I can do is tell the truth.

And the truth is this:

"I regret."

I regret the decisions I made that hurt my children.

I regret the times I didn't recognize how serious things were becoming.

I regret asking my mother for help without realizing that I was opening a door that would eventually change everything.

I regret the choices I made that contributed to my children being taken away.

I regret every moment when I should have been stronger.

I regret every opportunity I had to make a different decision and didn't.

And I regret that my children had to pay the price for mistakes that were made by adults.

But there is something else I want them to know.

I never stopped loving them.

Not for one second.

Even when we were separated.

Even when circumstances changed.

Even when years passed.

Even when I didn't know what to say.

Even when I didn't know how to fix what had already been broken.

I loved them.

Sometimes love isn't enough to keep you from making mistakes.

That is one of the hardest lessons I have learned.

You can love someone with everything inside you and still make choices that hurt them.

You can want to do the right thing and still get it wrong.

You can ask for help because you are trying to survive and discover later that the help came with a price you never understood.

I used to think admitting all of that meant I was admitting I was a terrible mother.

Now I think it means I am finally willing to be honest about the mother I was.

I wasn't perfect.

I made mistakes.

I made some very serious mistakes.

But I was also a human being trying to navigate circumstances I didn't always know how to handle.

That doesn't erase what happened.

It doesn't excuse it.

But perhaps understanding myself doesn't have to mean excusing myself.

Maybe it means learning from the person I used to be.

For years, I thought forgiveness meant forgetting.

Now I understand that it doesn't.

Forgiveness doesn't mean saying something didn't hurt.

It doesn't mean pretending the past didn't happen.

And it certainly doesn't mean my children owe me forgiveness.

If they are angry with me, they have a right to be.

If they have questions, they have a right to ask them.

If they need time, they deserve that time.

If someday they can forgive me, I will be grateful.

But I will never demand it.

Because forgiveness belongs to the person who was hurt.

What belongs to me is responsibility.

I can say, "I was wrong."

I can say, "I wish I had done better."

I can say, "I'm sorry."

And I can spend the rest of my life trying to become someone who would make better decisions today than I did yesterday.

If I could go back and talk to the younger version of myself, I would tell her something very simple.

Don't confuse needing help with giving someone else control.

Don't be afraid to ask for help, but understand what you're handing over.

And above everything else, never forget that your children are watching.

They are learning from you.

They are carrying pieces of you.

Every decision you make can become part of the story they tell themselves about their childhood.

I wish I had understood that then.

I wish I had known what I know now.

I wish I could go back and make different choices.

But I can't.

That is the cruel thing about regret.

It gives you perfect understanding at exactly the moment when understanding can no longer change the past.

So I carry it.

I carry the memories.

I carry the questions.

I carry the guilt.

I carry the love.

And I carry the hope that somehow, someday, my children will be able to separate the woman who made those mistakes from the mother who loved them.

Because I don't want my mistakes to be the only legacy I leave them.

I want them to know that people can change.

I want them to know that admitting you were wrong isn't weakness.

I want them to know that regret can become a teacher instead of a prison.

And if someday I have the chance to sit across from my children and tell them everything I have never been able to say, I won't make excuses.

I won't blame my mother.

I won't blame DCF.

I won't blame circumstances.

I will tell them the truth.

"I regret the choices I made."

Then I will tell them the other truth that has survived every mistake, every separation, every year, and every mile between us.

"I love you."

Maybe those two truths can exist together.

Maybe a mother can regret the choices she made and still love the children those choices affected.

Maybe a person can acknowledge the worst things they've done without believing they are nothing more than their worst moments.

And maybe that is what growing older has taught me.

We don't get to choose everything we leave behind.

Our actions become memories in other people's lives.

Our mistakes become stories.

Our love becomes something our children carry.

And sometimes, the only legacy we can change is what we do with the time we have left.

I can't rewrite my children's childhood.

I can't undo the decisions that brought us here.

I can't go back to the day I asked my mother for help and choose another path.

But I can tell the truth.

I can own my mistakes.

I can love my children without conditions.

I can hope they find peace, whether that peace includes me or not.

And I can keep learning how to forgive myself—not because I deserve to forget, but because I deserve the chance to become better.

If my children ever ask me what I regret most, I already know the answer.

I regret the decisions I made that changed their lives.

I regret the moments I wasn't the mother they needed.

I regret asking for help without understanding what I was giving away.

But if they ever ask me what I never regretted, there is only one answer.

Loving them.

I have never regretted that.

Not once.

Not ever.