When I was 14, I lost my mother. Not to death or divorce, but to schizophrenia, a disease that robs a person of the moorings of reality itself. Mom had always been fragile and often strangely distant, and as a child I'd sensed that I needed to protect her. She was gentle and kind, but she was not strong and she moved through the world with a hesitancy that suggested constant threat. When I was a teenager, she completely lost touch with reality and started a journey our family wasn't prepared for.
Like most cases of schizophrenia, Mom's illness is treatable, but at first the treatments themselves impaired her functioning in even basic ways. We hoped for full recovery, but the following decades of hospitalizations, delusions, medications, relapses, and fragility made clear what we'd already guessed: the mom we knew and had hoped to see again was gone. Although physically present, emotionally and mentally she was effectively absent much of the time. With Dad preoccupied, my younger sister and I cared for Mom and raised ourselves—with some help from our older siblings—from that point on.
I lived in survival mode during those teenage years. When I left home and finally had a safe distance, I began to feel acute grief for my mom and for myself. During college, I began working with counselors and bringing my grief before God. While the process of healing began, I continued to feel a sharp sadness as a young woman, a longing for what my friends had—a new sense of closeness to their mothers (and respect for their mothers' wisdom) as they came of age.1