Something happened in therapy today.
My therapist responded to my experience with poker in a way that felt… safe. Present.
She didn’t elevate me. She didn’t question me. She didn’t ask if it was stable or sustainable.
She just met me there.

And it hit something deep.

Because when I talk about poker with my mother, I feel judged. Dismissed. Like I’m doing something shameful or foolish.
And today I realised:

It’s not just about poker. It’s about everything.

I’ve never known what it’s like to be met with genuine curiosity, encouragement, or belief — especially when I’m doing something outside her control.

I started to wonder:
How much more would I have made — emotionally, financially, creatively — if I’d had a real mother?
One who saw me. One who responded like my therapist did today.
One who didn’t relate to me through fear, control, or contempt.

I don’t mean a perfect mother. I just mean… a present one.
One who knew how to nurture, not manage.

There’s grief in that.
Not just for the lost money or missed opportunities — but for the inner freedom I didn’t have.
For the versions of myself that never got to fully unfold.
For the love that should have been the soil beneath my life — but wasn’t.

I still did okay.
I survived.
I even built something.

But I’m allowed to mourn what could have been.
And I’m allowed to keep becoming the kind of parent — to myself, to my son — that I never had.