There is a version of you that still argues with your mother — in your head, in your reactions, in the tone that comes out of your mouth and surprises you. It knows nothing about your age. It is the position of a child, and it runs the show when the old stories are touched.

When a person begins to be aware of themselves — is this really my feeling, is this really my thought — a discovery often follows: inside, one finds the voices of mom, grandmothers, dad, grandfathers. The mother wound lies in this meeting: the voice that was never completed, the bond that was cut early, the child who never got to leave the door.