The White Socks

(A Mother’s Day meditation for those who had to become their own safe place)

I gave a gift in love. It was met with rage.

Me, as a young mother—before I knew I’d need to mother myself too.

This Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about a pair of white socks. Not because they were important. But because they were offered in care—and met with fury.

Two years ago, during a holiday already heavy with tension, I carefully selected and wrapped gifts for someone I love. One of those gifts was a pair of white socks. Thoughtful, I believed. But they weren’t what was wanted—and that was made painfully clear. What followed wasn’t disappointment. It was devastation. There was harm. There was violence. And there was blame.

And the blame came from both directions.

From the one who rejected the gift—furious that I hadn’t done it “right.” And from another, watching from the outside, who later asked me:

“Why didn’t you just get her what she asked for? I mean, you got her white socks.”

As if that explained everything.

As if the wrong gift justified what happened.

As if I should have known better.

Because that’s what mothers are taught, isn’t it? To anticipate every need, get it exactly right, and silently carry the blame when we don’t.

⸻

There was a time when I would have folded under that kind of question. I would have internalized the failure. Absorbed the message. Told myself I was the problem, and tried to fix it all—again. But not anymore. Now, I see clearly: It was never about the socks.

And in that moment, I saw the arrow mid-flight.

I recognized the blame—disguised as logic, wrapped in guilt—and I did not take it in. I let it pass. I knew, immediately and deeply, that it wasn’t mine to carry. A year earlier, it would have hit me like truth. And that kind of clarity? That’s what it means to protect yourself with love. It was about someone else’s pain being handed to me—And the quiet revolution of saying no.

⸻

The people involved carry their own stories now. Their own weight. Their own consequences. I don’t need to name them to honor the truth of what happened. What matters most is this: on that day, I stood completely alone.

And for the first time, I had the tools to hold myself.

Not with blame or shame—but with reverence. I saw myself as a mother who had learned to mother herself. To love herself—regardless of outcome. And to love others in their imperfection, without guilt, shame, or blame.

I’ve had to cultivate extraordinary self-compassion in the face of unbearable circumstances.

And I have done that.

This is the embodied work of Joy by Design:

To thread the needle between boundary and break.

To return to the sacred center of your own worth.

⸻

This Mother’s Day, I honor the woman I’ve become.

I choose to live from my divinity.

I did not have to earn it.

And neither do you, dear reader.

We are all enough.

We are all doing our best.

Happy Mother’s Day.