I’m 27 and still crave maternal affection: Why this happens and what helps
Last month, I woke up at 2:17 a.m. with a 101-degree fever, my sheets soaked through and my throat feeling like I’d swallowed glass. I fumbled out of bed to grab more Tylenol from the bathroom cabinet, and on my way back I paused by the window, watching a neighbor walk her golden retriever in the rain. Out of nowhere, this ache settled in my chest: I wanted my mom to come sit on the edge of my bed, run her hand over my hair, and tell me I’d feel better soon. I didn’t call her. I knew if I did, she’d offer to bring me soup and ask if I’d gone to the doctor, but she wouldn’t sit. She wouldn’t touch me, not like that. I curled back under the covers and thought the same thing I always think when this hits: Why can’t I just grow out of this?
I’m 27, I pay my mortgage, I manage a team at work, I plan my own vacations and fix my own leaky faucet. My relationship with my mom is fine, better than fine, actually. She was a single mom working two factory jobs when I was growing up, and she put food on the table every night, made it to every one of my high school soccer games, and helped me pay for community college. She did everything she could, with what she had. I never went without, not really. So why does this still come up?
A week after I got over that flu, I went to my cousin’s baby shower out in the suburbs. It was 90 degrees, and everyone was crowded inside the community center, so I slipped out onto the back porch to get some air. My cousin Lila, who works as a school counselor with kids and families, followed me out. We leaned against the rail drinking lukewarm iced tea, and I told her about that 2 a.m. moment. I was embarrassed, saying it out loud, kept making jokes about being a grown baby.
She just shrugged and said, You don’t have to grow out of it. Needs don’t expire just because you hit a certain age. If you didn’t get that soft, consistent affection when you were little, that need doesn’t just go away. It just hides until you’re tired or sick or stressed, then it pops right back up. That makes sense, right? When you’re a kid, your mom is supposed to be the person who gives you that safe, physical comfort. If she couldn’t, for whatever reason, that gap doesn’t close on its own when you turn 18.
I thought about that for a while, and realized it was true. I grew up thinking being independent meant not needing anyone, especially not affection from your mom. I was proud of moving out at 19, proud that I never called her crying when I had a bad day. But that gap was still there, just under the surface.
Lila didn’t give me some big speech or fancy exercises. She just gave me a few small, low-effort things to try, and over the past few months they’ve made more of a difference than I expected. First, she said stop shaming yourself for wanting it. Just name it as an unmet need, not a flaw. I used to beat myself up for hours after one of these moments, calling myself childish for not being over it. Now when the ache hits, I just acknowledge it: Yeah, that’s the old need. That’s all. Shaming it just made it feel bigger, and taking the shame away takes most of the sting out.
Second, she said you don’t have to get this need met by your mom, if she can’t give it to you. That was a revelation for me, because I’d always thought it had to be her, or it didn’t count. One small thing I tried that she suggested is, when the feeling is really strong, I wrap myself in my weighted blanket, make the warm lemon honey drink I loved as a kid, and I say out loud the things I wish my mom would say. The first time I did it, I felt so silly I almost laughed. But after a few minutes, that tight ache in my chest loosened. It’s not the same as my mom saying it, but it helps. I also started asking the people in my life who are okay with touch for what I need. If I’m having a bad day and I’m meeting my best friend, I just say, “I need a really long hug when you get here.” No one has ever thought that was weird. Most people are just happy they can help.
For parents reading this, I think this is an important thing to keep in mind. A lot of parents assume once their kid turns 20 or 25, they don’t need mom’s affection anymore. But that’s not true. If your grown kid tells you they want more hugs, or they want you to sit with them when they’re upset, you don’t have to overhaul your whole personality. You just have to do small things. I finally worked up the courage to tell my mom a few months ago that I wish we hugged longer when we see each other. She was awkward at first, laughed and said “I didn’t know you liked that,” but now, when I leave, she doesn’t pat my back and pull away after two seconds. She holds it for an extra beat. It’s not the big dramatic cuddle I wanted when I was 7, but it’s more than I had before, and that matters.
I still have the hard moments. Two weeks ago, I got passed over for the promotion I’d been working toward for a year, and I drove 20 minutes toward my mom’s house before I turned around and went home. I knew she’d worry, she’d tell me to quit and find a new job, but she still wouldn’t sit with me on the couch and hold my hand while I cried. I went home, made my lemon tea, wrapped up in my blanket, and facetimed my best friend who let me cry for 45 minutes while she ate popcorn on her couch. That was enough. It’s not the exact maternal affection I craved as a kid, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting it entirely. But I don’t have to “grow out” of it to be a functional adult. I’ve found small ways to meet that need on my own terms, and most days, that’s enough. It’s still a work in progress, some days the ache is bigger than others. But I stopped shaming myself for it, and that’s the biggest change I’ve made so far.
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