My Son Loves Me — And That’s Why It Hurts

I get exhausted being around my son sometimes. Not because of him — he’s bright and beautiful and full of life. But because of what he stirs up in me.

It’s like every time I see him be himself — happy, expressive, free — it triggers something deep in my nervous system.
Something ancient. Something scared.
My inner child, maybe. The part of me that never got to be like that.
The part that was neglected, rejected, emotionally starved.

Now I see what I missed. And I see it every day through him.

That’s a strange kind of grief.

I’ve realised something else too:
He might be the first person to ever love me consistently.

Not a therapist.
Not a partner.
Not a parent.
But my child. My son.

And yes, I’m aware of how dangerous that could become — how easy it would be to lean on him emotionally, to let him become the one who fills the void.
But I won’t do that. I don’t want anything from him.
I just notice what it does to me.

On Father’s Day, he gave me loads of gifts. Thoughtful, sweet, completely unnecessary — and yet I’ve never felt so loved.
And I told him today: sometimes I’ve been sad, and it’s not his job to cheer me up. I hope he understood. I think he did.
He said, “You always say that.”

And maybe he’s right.
But I am getting stronger.
It’s just taken time — because I’ve had to face the truth underneath it all:

That I’ve never been consistently loved…
Until now.
And that it came from my child.

That’s beautiful.
And it’s devastating.

Because he shouldn’t have to be the first.
But the fact that he is… it means everything.

Maybe the exhaustion isn’t about parenting.
Maybe it’s about how close I am — for the first time — to the kind of love I never knew.
And how much of me it takes to let it in without falling apart.

I’m learning.

And I’m staying.

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