"Becoming The Mom I Didn't Know I Could Be" by Amy J Brown
Summer Season of Letters From A Caregiver
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I’m Victoria. You can read why I’m publishing Carer Mentor here: Who Started Carer Mentor and Why? I created Carer Mentor to offer heartfelt empathy for Caregivers. It’s a hub of practical tools, resources, and insights. A community support network for all of us human-ing hard. ❤️ Start exploring here.
Letters from a Caregiver.
“Letters from a Caregiver” is a weekly article where a caregiver offers their wisdom, compassion, and hope to their younger self. No one knows us as well as we know ourselves, and even then, we may second-guess ourselves. The choices, challenges and tragedies we’ve faced have forged us in more ways than anyone can understand; in ways we’re still trying to decipher!
Since September 2025, thirty-two letters have been posted over three seasons.
This Summer Season so far
“Caregiving is a continuous evolution of my love, trust and courage.” by Victoria
“You Have to Receive in Order for the Circle of Love to be Complete” by Kaeli Hansen Caregivers Count with Kaeli
“When Wishes Come True” by Cindy Roman, who writes Alzheimer’s Witness
“Accept Caregiving Help When You Can” by Sue Montgomery, RN, BSN, MA
Today’s ‘Letter from a Caregiver’ is by Amy J Brown
Amy and several other caregiver friends have opened my eyes and mind further to caregiving as a parent. Their experiences and learnings underscored my belief that too often all types of caregiving get lumped into one bucket. So, I created our collaboration initiative Caregiving As a Parent, A Monthly Discussion Series.
There’s a wealth of insights and heartfelt advice in Amy’s articles—not surprising given her experience and parenting six kids! Here are just a few I recommend reading:
This doesn’t mean that kids with physical disabilities always get all the help they need. That’s not true.
The problem with invisible disabilities is that people often see them as moral issues because they affect behavior. When others blame or judge us for our kids’ actions, we often feel ashamed.
My son can’t climb a mountain, and I don’t feel upset or guilty about that. But when my daughter acts out at school, I often feel angry and ashamed.
So how can we change the way we think about challenging behaviors? And how can we help others do the same? Read more about how Amy offers a small but powerful reframe in how to parent kids with invisible disabilities
When Family Doesn’t Get It: Navigating Support As a Parent of Children with Invisible Disabilities
10 Things I Have Learned: Holiday Edition Spoiler alert: You don’t have to do it all.
8. Pay attention to what is right in front of you. And have the courage to slow down (even if no one else does).
I love this quote:
“True spaciousness of the soul has the will and courage to experience things as they are” - Christina Valters Paintner, The Artist’s Rule
Author’s Bio: Amy J. Brown is a writer, mentor, and spiritual director, and author of The Other Side Of Special: Navigating the Messy, Emotional, and Joy-Filled Life of a Special Needs Mom. She holds a Master’s in Spiritual Formation and Leadership and writes honestly about adoption, parenting children with mental health issues and trauma, and life-giving spiritual practices for overwhelmed caregivers at More than a Caregiver. She and her husband are the parents of six children and live in Michigan.
Becoming the mom I didn’t know I could be
A letter to a mother who blamed herself
Dear Younger Amy,
Years ago, you were standing in a hospital as your four-year-old daughter had a CT scan after a seizure. You were worried sick about her. As you watched her small body on that huge machine, you felt helpless, and you had no idea yet how much that feeling would become a constant in the years ahead.
After the procedure, the nurse turned to you and said, “Pick her up and hold her like she likes to be held, mom.” You stood there for a moment, confused. It was a simple request. Hold your child. But in that moment, you realized you had no idea how she liked to be held. Shame and guilt washed over you. What kind of mom doesn’t know how her daughter likes to be held?
That was the moment your mom-guilt went into overdrive. You did not know when you adopted her that she had reactive attachment disorder and Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD). (Reactive attachment disorder — RAD — is a condition where a child has difficulty forming a bond with parents or caregivers due to early trauma.) You were doing the best you could. It was just the beginning of years when guilt and shame would hang over you, and you would carry the weight of challenging behaviors that were never actually your fault but a result of her diagnosis.
A few years later, you’re sitting in an Individualized Education Program (IEP) meeting with all the specialists. You came prepared with your own research, documented behaviors, and pages of notes. You were hoping that someone would truly see your child and her struggles and give her the help she needed. Instead, you were met with the question: “What is going on at home?” The judgment was clear: that your parenting, your home, was the problem. That this was your fault. At that moment, in a room of “experts,” you felt small and dismissed. Once again, you questioned yourself, wondering what it was you were doing wrong as a parent. You straightened your shoulders and went home believing you needed to try harder.
You decided to be honest with a friend about the challenges you were facing at home. You vulnerably shared about the rages, the calls from school, and the behavior that comes from a trauma-formed brain. You were weighing the few options you had, not knowing how you’d make it another day, and saying the words aloud felt vulnerable and scary, but also a relief. You were met with questions and responses that missed the mark — “Maybe she isn’t getting enough attention, maybe you need to XYZ.” The words were gentle, but they felt like a slap.
You walked away and told yourself that no one would get it, that you were on your own. Maybe I can’t trust myself.
You are sitting on the back porch with your husband after another disappointing attempt to get help and support, and you say what you never thought you would have to say: that your child needs to leave your home to get help. You realized that she needed more than you could give her. You both made the decision to send her to a residential treatment center. This will be one of the hardest decisions of your life. You do not know it now, but it will be the right and best decision for your child. But in that moment, you feel the most helpless you have ever felt.
I wish I could go back to that hospital room and remove the shame and guilt you will feel for the next several years. But here is what I want you to know and wish you knew all these years ago: parenting kids with invisible disabilities and challenging behavior that stems from trauma will be the hardest thing you do. But in all these moments, you were not a bad mom or to blame. You were parenting in an impossible situation. But you loved well. You were loving trauma and drug exposure, dysregulated nervous systems, and a child terrified to be loved, so she reacted in the only way that felt safe to her, and that was violence and raging.
In that moment of confusion when you picked up your child after her MRI, you kept picking her up, again and again, in the hardest moments. You chose love even when it seemed impossible.
When you felt dismissed, you kept advocating anyway. No expert could tell you what you already knew; you knew your child better than anyone, and that inner intuition was strong enough to trust.
When a friend didn’t understand, you retreated. But hear this now: you will be seen. You will find others who have walked this path. And one day, you’ll be the voice for another mother standing exactly where you once stood.
When you felt at the end of your rope and made the decision to send her to a treatment center, what felt like giving up was actually what helped her. That decision helped give respite and healing to the rest of the family. You were not giving up on her; you were putting her on solid ground so she could heal and learn the skills she needed to get to where she is today. That decision took bravery and love, and you had both.
Somewhere along the line, you got the idea that it was all up to you, that you had to do everything, and that it all had to be done immediately. You worried about your other children. You juggled several children with high needs while the other children witnessed the trauma. I want you to know it’s not all up to you. You will have people who walk with you on this path. You don’t have to do it all. You can take breaks and care for your body, and you can take a minute, take a breath, and do the next right thing.
In the moments when you sat in the garage and didn’t want to go inside because you didn’t know how to do one more day, life seemed really hard. I want you to know there will be so many moments of joy, laughter, and beauty, and you will be accompanied not just by others but by God and your beautiful soul.
This has been a journey, one you didn’t choose, and one that has cost you more than anyone will ever fully know. But it’s also one you’ve grown through. The woman writing this letter is not the woman standing in that hospital room. You’ve learned to trust yourself. You’ve learned to continue to love in the most difficult circumstances. You have learned to speak up, set boundaries, and not cry at an IEP meeting.
You were and are a good mom. Not a perfect one. You made mistakes and had missteps, and that made you wiser and stronger.
One last thing: eat more ice cream. Just do it.
Love
Amy (2026)
One last question to close the letter from Victoria.
Please share one quote/movie/book that’s inspired you.
I love this quote by Henri Nouwen1: “Trust that the treasure we look for is hidden in the ground on which we stand.” from Bread for the Journey: A Daybook of Wisdom and Faith.
It reminds me that beauty and joy can be found in my life right now, not on some distant horizon when things calm down. Let’s be real, as caregivers, things never truly calm down! This quote encourages me to slow down and pay attention.
Prompt for Discussion
As a caregiver, I often believed that “it was all up to me” and that everything had to be done immediately.
Where in your life do you still carry that belief? What would it look like to set it down, even briefly?
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Henri Jozef Machiel Nouwen (January 24, 1932 – September 21, 1996) was a Dutch Catholic priest, professor, writer and theologian. His interests were rooted primarily in psychology, pastoral ministry, spirituality, social justice and community