Why I Feel Understood by Women from My Mother’s Generation

On trauma, closeness, and the right to exist  and why safety sometimes only arrives when you keep your distance

Sometimes it’s not the people who raise you, but the ones who simply receive you, who make the difference.


I only noticed it later. That the people I truly trust all belong to one generation. Not mine. And definitely not by coincidence.

For Renate, Inez, Marjan and Melissa (and even Renata at some point)
You see without reaching.
You listen without pushing.
Thank you for letting me simply exist around you.

I almost missed it myself that it’s always women around sixty. Women the same age as my mother. Women I admire, who help me settle and who see me from a distance.

Not childhood friends. Not peers. Not younger women showing how far they’ve travelled, what they wear, or what they’ve done “for themselves” today. No. My most cherished and respectful connections are with women who are almost as old as the one who hurt me the most, but they are different. And that is not a coincidence.

I’m not looking for a mother. But I’m not imagining things either.

I don’t use “mother trauma” as a buzzword. I don’t say it to push anyone away or point fingers. I say it because it’s true. Because I grew up in a place where closeness and control came in the same exhale. Where caring and manipulating were inseparably woven together. Where love never came without conditions.
In my mother’s eyes, I was either ungrateful, too cold or too hard. Always too little or too much. And in the meantime, I had to carry her: her moods, her fears, her rules, her sorrow. There was no room for my inner world; only for how little I disturbed hers.
That kind of imprint doesn’t just fade. Your body stays on high alert, even when you’re grown. Even when you know “it’s over now.” Your nervous system doesn’t believe you.
But these women from her generation – the ones who do listen, who don’t push, who quietly check in, who ask how I am without judging – they’re different. And it’s exactly those women I feel safe with.

I don’t call it a substitute. I call it healing.

There’s no void that needs to be filled; only a wound that’s finally allowed to heal, because no one’s still digging their fingers into it.
These women are often softer. Or rougher, but not aggressive. They have sharp edges but let you decide whether or not to come closer. They don’t impose. They’ve learned better. They’ve known loss. They’ve lived through their own cycles of care and goodbye, of changing bodies and surrendered expectations. And maybe that’s it: they no longer have anything to prove.
Their rhythm is slower. Their heartbeat calmer. Their presence quieter. And I – someone who’s been on edge all my life – feel that difference.

Peers often exhaust me.

Not always. Not everyone. But often, yes. Their pace, their drive, their relentless forward motion; it confronts me with all the things I can’t do or don’t want to. Their “you always have a choice” hurts when you haven’t felt a real choice in years. When each day is a math problem made of energy, survival, and just enough courage to hold on.
Around people my own age, I often feel old, invisible or like I’ve failed. But with these women in their late fifties or early sixties, I feel something else entirely. A stillness. A depth. And also: space. For who I am. Not despite everything, but maybe because of it.

And still: when people see me, they see someone young.

A quick, playful spirit. A young woman with a wild little dog, a shy laugh in her voice. The way I dress, speak, move is light. My energy, my expressions are almost childlike at times. But inside, I often feel ancient. Tired from carrying. Tired from fighting. Tired from constantly having to explain why the world sounds so loud, smells so sharp, comes so close.
It’s that exact contrast that makes me feel out of place among my peers. They don’t get it. Or they only see one side and never both. As if they can’t be true at the same time.
But these women see both. They feel my weight without dimming my light. They take me seriously without making me heavier. And because of that, I feel real. Whole. Not torn between who I appear to be and who I actually am.

I still keep my distance. And they understand that.

These women don’t call me. They don’t demand replies. They don’t send passive-aggressive follow-ups if I’m quiet for a week or a month. They’ve seen life fall silent before. They know silence isn’t always rejection. And because of that, I dare to stay. Even at a distance.
I can be myself with them, because they no longer need to explain themselves. And that takes the pressure off me. No struggle. No expectations. Just a mutual presence. A kind of peaceful side-by-side instead of a pushing face-to-face.
And maybe that’s the most healing thing of all.

What they give me

They give me affirmation without conditions. Listening without diagnosis. Presence without interference. They ask for nothing, but make me feel seen. And after a childhood where I only existed if I was seen correctly, that is a miracle.

Finally

I don’t feel like a child anymore. But I don’t feel like a peer either. I feel something in between or outside of it altogether. But because of these women, I do feel like I exist. And that’s more than I ever thought I’d have.

So if you’re reading this and you recognize something in it, know this:
It’s not strange. It’s not wrong. It’s not unexplainable.

Sometimes it’s not the people who raise us, but the ones who simply receive us, who make the difference.

Even from a distance.