The default state of my mother is a closed door. Not locked—just firmly shut, the kind of door you don’t bother knocking on because you already know the answer is I’m fine, I’m just tired.
Unexpected grief surfaced: regret for years I held back, guilt for past harsh words. The love shower felt like rain on dry ground — but also stirred up dust. I journaled a lot. Cried twice. Worth it. after a month of showering my mother with love fix
3. Say thank you for old things. "Thank you for driving me to soccer practice even though you were tired." "Thank you for staying married to Dad when it was hard." Gratitude for the past neutralizes resentment in the present. The default state of my mother is a closed door
Week 3 — Thoughtful Gestures I addressed specific needs. I cooked her favorite meals, fixed a leaky faucet she’d put off, and brought home the book she mentioned. I arranged a video call with a distant friend she missed and created a simple playlist of songs from her youth. These gestures were practical, personal, and unassuming. The love shower felt like rain on dry
So, I decided to perform an experiment. I called it the "Love Fix." It sounded clinical, I know, but with my mother, you needed a strategy. You couldn't just offer affection; she’d deflect it like a linebacker. I decided I would spend one month aggressively, obnoxiously, and unconditionally showering her with warmth, just to see if I could thaw the permafrost.
It had been years since I’d seen her anything other than "managing." She managed the house. She managed her doctors. She managed to get out of bed, make tea, and return to bed with the precision of a soldier navigating a minefield. She was surviving, but she wasn't living. She was a house with the lights off.