The Replacement Child: When the Love You Needed Never Came—But You Found Wholeness Anyway by Stephanie Dee Smith

A Permission to be Powerful Community Post

EDITOR’S NOTE: Permission to be Powerful is growing fast. In that spirit, a bunch of writers came together to show their support. I’m immensely grateful. I’ll be sharing a new piece every day for the next 9 days.

Now, let’s get into it…

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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

I was born 11 months after my brother died.

He came too soon—premature, tiny, with underdeveloped kidneys. He was born and died on the same day. A fleeting presence, a heartbreaking loss. My parents had already welcomed one child, my older sister, Mary. Then came this tragedy. And then came me.

From the outside, I was the miracle that followed the storm. The second chance. The fresh hope.

But on the inside, I was the replacement child.

A Mother’s Wound

I didn’t have those words growing up, but I lived them. I breathed them.

My mother never bonded with me the way she had with my sister. I understand now that she couldn’t. She was grieving—deeply, silently, and probably in a state of untreated postpartum depression that never had a name. It was 1963. Women were told to swallow their sorrow and carry on. Grief was a private matter. Therapy was shameful. Emotions were inconvenient.

So instead of love, I got distance. Instead of comfort, I got coldness. Instead of encouragement, I got judgement.

She would say things like:
“You should be grateful for what you have. If your brother hadn’t died, you wouldn’t even be here.”

That sentence hung over my childhood like a dark cloud. Was I supposed to feel thankful that my brother died? Grateful to exist only because of a tragedy?

I grew up believing I was unwanted, unworthy, unlovable.

Love, Unexpected

The maternal warmth every child should receive never made its way to me. But love has a funny way of finding you, even if it doesn’t come from the expected places.

First there was Mrs. Lawrence, my fourth-grade teacher and the school’s librarian. She believed in me. She encouraged my curiosity, praised my effort, and made me feel like I could do anything. She wasn’t related to me by blood, but she nurtured my spirit like a mother would. She told me I could be a writer. She told me I had a way with words.

And then there was Mrs. Barber, the mother of my best friend in high school. She showed me what a real mother looked like. She hugged without hesitation. She asked about my day. She made me feel like I mattered, like I was more than enough. She taught me how to mother my own daughter and so far, after 37 years, I don’t think I’ve mucked it up too bad.

These women planted seeds in me. Seeds that said:
You are not broken. You are not a mistake. You are worthy of love.

The Long Road to Healing

It took me years—decades—to truly understand the wound my mother left. To acknowledge it without shame. To stop trying to win her love like a prize I needed to earn.

I see it so clearly now: she didn’t have the capacity to give what she didn’t have. Her well was dry. And while that doesn’t excuse the hurt, it does explain it.

This realization changed everything.

I stopped blaming myself. I stopped trying to become the version of me that would finally make her proud. I stopped tying my value to her ability—or inability—to love me.

And I forgave her.

Not in a neat, tidy, “wrap it with a bow” kind of way. But in the messy, soul-scraping, breath-through-the-tears kind of way.

I forgave her because I deserved peace.

I forgave her because I now know that people can only meet you where they are. She was still standing in the wreckage of a loss she never healed from. And I… I was never meant to fix it. I was never meant to be it.

And Then, the Twist

And here’s the irony: that solace and love and acceptance I so desperately craved from her—it’s never going to come.

Not because I don’t believe she loved me in her own fractured way. I think she did.

But now, at 84, my mother has dementia. She doesn’t remember anything from those years.

Some days, she doesn’t even remember me.

And guess who is her primary caregiver?

Yep. Me.

Life is strange that way. Sometimes it gives you back everything you gave, not in the way you wanted, but in the way that sets you free.

Let Them

There’s a theory Mel Robbins talks about called the Let Them Theory. It’s the idea that you can’t force people to see you, love you, or change for you. If they’re going to judge you, dismiss you, misunderstand you—let them.

It’s not your job to convince anyone of your worth.

I lived so much of my life trying to be enough for someone who couldn’t receive me. What a waste of magic.

I Am Not a Replacement

Today, I know better.

I know I am not a replacement. I am a miracle in my own right. I was divinely created with my own gifts, talents, ideas, flaws, and fire. My life has value that doesn’t hinge on anyone’s validation.

And if you’re reading this, I want you to know the same is true for you.

You don’t need someone else to finally love you in order to love yourself. You don’t need to keep auditioning for approval.

You were born worthy. You are already whole.

If the people who were supposed to love you didn’t—let them.

Let them be who they are.
And you? Be who you are.

Because I promise, who you are is more than enough.

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Reflection Question for Readers:

Have you ever spent years trying to earn love from someone who simply couldn’t give it? What helped you let go?

— Stephanie