In Part 1, I shared about the constant movement of my childhood — the instability, the packing and unpacking of my life from one house to another, and how boarding school became the first place that felt like a home no one could take from me.
But beneath all that movement was another layer — quieter, deeper — something God has been gently bringing into the light.
The absence of my mother.
And this is where the story continues.
Naming What Was Missing
Recently, in the shower of all places, God began to speak to me — not in accusation, not in condemnation, but with clarity.
Not “the orphan spirit.”
Not a label.
Just truth.
What I heard was this: “It’s the absence of your biological mum in your life.”
For as long as I can remember, whenever life didn’t go the way I hoped, a quiet thought would rise inside me: If my mum was here, I wouldn’t be going through this.
I didn’t always say it out loud. But it lived there.
At some point in secondary school, I told myself what I thought was a survival truth: Jane, she’s not here. Get on with it. And I did. I got on with life.
But God’s question to me now is gentle and piercing: Did you heal… or did you just learn how to survive?
The Story I Rarely Tell
Many people have heard me talk about my dad.
Very few people have heard me talk about my biological mum.
Some people close to me only discovered she existed in 2022 — after she passed away.
We had no real relationship. I met her only once in my lifetime. My aunt and I drove around for hours trying to find her, moving from place to place until we finally did. We spent about a week together. I remember being hopeful. Excited.
Before she left that week, I gave her our home phone number and address.
Then… silence. Years passed. No calls. No letters. Nothing.
Until one day in my final year at university, an unknown number called.
I answered and asked, “Who is this?”
The reply came: “Your mum.”
And I froze.
Because the voice didn’t belong to the woman I called mum — my stepmum. For a moment, I thought it was a scam. Then realisation hit, it was her. I don’t remember much about what we discussed. I just remember feeling… cold. Detached. The call was short.
Life moved on again.
Then one early morning, sitting in my car as I usually did before going into the office, another unknown number called.
“Who is this?” I asked again. “Your mum.”
That call didn’t go well. After that, silence again.
Every now and then — maybe once every couple of years — another call would come. Then, around 2013, the calls stopped completely.
And I remember thinking I felt relieved. Or… was I?
Because carrying on didn’t mean I wasn’t affected. It meant I learned to live with abandonment and rejection without naming them.
Running Before I Could Be Left
Somewhere along the way, a pattern formed.
No one really broke up with me. If I sensed — even slightly — someone might leave, I left first. Because how many times can a girl relive rejection?
I was afraid to ask for help — not because I didn’t need it, but because I was afraid of hearing no. Afraid of what no would reopen inside me.
People would say, “Jane doesn’t disturb anyone.” But inside, I was thinking: I just don’t want anyone to reject me again.
There’s one memory that still stays with me. I was in university. Completely broke. I couldn’t reach my dad. So I called someone — let’s call them P (P was responsible for me) — from the Uni business centre to ask for money.
Their response? “You only call when you want something.”
The call ended. The money never came.
And in that moment, my heart made a decision.
But with maturity, I can now admit something else: they may have been broke too. Maybe they simply didn’t have it.
But I took it personally.
Deeply personally.
And my reaction was simple: Don’t ask people for things again. Then they can’t reject you.
That day, I prayed quietly: “God, please don’t let me ever have to ask this person for anything again.”
And something hardened inside me.
Hyper-Independence as Armor
That was the day hyper-independence sealed itself into my life unknowingly.
Because dependence meant vulnerability.
Dependence meant people could talk to you anyhow.
Dependence meant rejection was always near.
So I built walls. They protected me. But they also isolated me.
And now, God is gently undoing what survival built.
I’m in a season where I’m learning to ask people for help.
And trust me — it’s hard.
Not because I don’t want to. But because I have to rewrite my brain.
Even small things.
Recently at the gym, someone offered to help remove weights so I could use the rack. Instinctively, I was about to say, No, I can do it.
And then, quietly, I heard: Let him do it. This is practice. Guided dependence. God has been showing me that the independence I thought saved me also kept me from receiving comfort.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18
God, the One Who Stayed
There’s a verse that now feels deeply personal:
“A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy dwelling.”
— Psalm 68:5
And yes — a mother to the motherless too. This is me.
God wasn’t absent when my mum was. But I didn’t know how to grieve what I never had.
Now, God isn’t accusing me. He’s inviting me. Inviting me to let Him touch the places where I learned to run before being left. The places where asking for help felt too costly. The places where I convinced myself I was fine.
“Even if my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will hold me close.”
— Psalm 27:10
Closing Thought
Some wounds don’t come from what happened — they come from what never did.
The love you waited for.
The presence you needed.
The protection that never showed up.
But God is not intimidated by what was missing.
He is patient enough to heal it — gently, in His time.
Healing doesn’t rewrite the past. It allows God to meet us inside it.
And sometimes healing simply begins with admitting: God, I don’t want to just survive anymore — I want to heal.
Closing Prayer
Father,
Thank You for staying when others could not.
Thank You for seeing the child who learned to survive without what she needed.
I invite You into every place shaped by absence, abandonment, and fear of rejection.
Heal what I learned to hide.
Teach me how to receive love without running.
Be to me what I did not have — and more than I ever imagined.
I trust You with this healing.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
Leave a Reply