I'm Scared of My Mom

I’m scared of my mom.

Not in the “hide under the bed” kind of way. Not even in the “she’s going to kill me when she finds out what I did” kind of way—though there were more moments than I’d ever care to imagine during my teenage years when that felt like a valid concern. I mean, I was an absolute $%*^head as a child.

Now that I think about it, it’s amazing that I’m the one who developed a drinking problem between the two of us.

But no matter how much trouble I got myself into - yes, I was disciplined often - my mom (and dad, for that matter) has never stopped loving me (that I’m aware of).

The Two Fears

There are two kinds of fear when it comes to relationships.

There’s servile fear - a fear that arises from negative consequences, like being punished by a higher power. It’s characterized by a relationship based on power and dominance, rather than love and trust. It’s a fear that is primarily concerned with avoiding punishment and maintaining a current status - it’s often associated with a master-slave relationship.

Servile fear is often accompanied by feelings of despair and hopelessness, rooted in condemnation and wrath. You don’t want to upset your master because you don’t want to feel the whip.

Then there’s filial fear - a fear that’s rooted in love, reverence, and a desire to please someone you love. This fear isn’t a fear of the entity itself (God, spouse, child, parent), but rather a fear of displeasing or being separated from them.

Filial fear, rooted in love, is linked to a sense of grace and hope. It’s a fear of letting them down.

When I speak of being afraid of my mom, I hope it’s obvious - it’s a servile fear. She’s a lot stronger and meaner than she looks, can throw a mean right hook, and she has you all fooled. (KIDDING!)

(Note: this black eye is from a rugby match, NOT my mom - and I also do not condone domestic abuse)

Fear of letting the people you love down

Filial fear of my mom is a different kind of fear than what we’re used to thinking about. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you as you get older. The kind rooted in reverence, not rules. In love, not control. In awe of who she is—and everything she’s done to make sure I’m still standing.

My mom is scary because she’s good. Like, really good. The kind of good that doesn’t draw attention to itself. The kind of good that quietly shapes lives, carries families, and holds things together without needing applause (though she deserves it).

She could’ve been anything—a lawyer, a CEO, a best-selling author. She easily could be a Jeopardy! champion (she’d have to get past me first, though).

She’s that smart and capable. She earned a free ride to college because of her academic successes.

But instead, she chose us. She chose home. She chose motherhood as her calling - with part and full-time work to go along with it.

She chose it like a vocation - because that’s exactly what it is.

A sacred assignment.

And that’s where the fear comes in. Because how do you live a life worthy of that kind of love?

When I was at my lowest—especially during my struggle with mental health issues and alcohol—it was my mom who showed up (with my dad as her driver - though he’s been more than that, obviously. They have been two equal, stable pillars).

Not with lectures.

Not with guilt trips.

Just with that quiet, steady presence that somehow says, “You’re not alone. I’m not leaving. We’ll get through this.”

She prayed daily (and still does). I even remember her telling me, while I was an absolute mess, that she wasn’t worried at all - she knew God would get me through it.

She carried me through things I could barely carry myself through.

She “emptied the bags” from my cupboard when the drawer wouldn’t shut (that’s a story for another day).

She came down to my house in Columbus - twice - and slept on my couch while I was terrified, trying desperately to put my life back together.

And these examples are only more recent - and the tip of the iceberg.

She saw me clearly, even when I couldn’t see myself at all.

And did it all without a single complaint.

She’s showed me how to take on life’s burdens with prayerful surrender.

While I clearly got my smartassedness, among other positive traits, from my dad - I got my sensitivity, introspection, and love for reading from her.

So yes—I’m scared of mom.

Scared to let her down.

Scared to waste the grace she’s poured into my life over the years.

Scared in the way you’re scared to fumble something precious that someone handed to you, something they sacrificed to give you.

She makes me want to be better—not because she demands it, but because she deserves it.

I’m still learning how to say thank you in ways that live up to what she gave. Words can’t really cover it.

But maybe this is a start.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you. And yes—still scared of you. The good kind.