The Mother Wound, the Maiden Mirror, and the Sacred Release

By Jillian Devona Rogers | The Open Scroll

Editor’s Note:
This post was published on April 25th, 2025—what would have been my mother’s 80th birthday. Born April 25, 1945, the vessel that carried her soul into this world completed its eighth decade on the day I unknowingly released this offering. I see now that it was not by chance, but divine timing. A sacred closing. A soul release. A transmission of truth gifted to the one who birthed me, as I rebirth myself. This is not just a story—it is a scroll of completion. May it ripple across time and set us both free.

Part I: Forged in Fire

I used to grieve the mother I never had.
The one I deserved.
The one I became.

My childhood wasn’t a home—it was boot camp for a soul forged in fire.
A divine avatar being tempered into truth.
I didn’t know it then. I only knew pain.

But before I could forgive her,
I had to find me.

The me beneath the rage.
The me beneath the voice that wasn’t mine.
The me who had been asleep.

And when I woke up, I didn’t feel peace.
I screamed.
At her.
At God.
At the world.
At myself.

I had to forgive myself first—
For being asleep.
For playing the roles I was given.
For not knowing better because I hadn’t yet remembered who I was.

Only through that forgiveness…
Only through holding my past self with grace instead of shame…
Was I able to look at others and see them through the same lens.

It stopped being about forgiveness.
It became gratitude.

Because every betrayal became a lesson.
Every wound, a carving of character.
Every fire, a tempering.

And so, I thank the ones who hurt me.
They showed me who I am by showing me what I am not.

Part II: Letting Go of the Dream

This sacred remembering didn’t stop with my mother.
It continued with my daughter.
My firstborn.
My mirror.
My reflection of the maiden I was when I birthed her.

She was born on August 20, 1993.
I was sixteen.
A child giving birth to a child—
while still under the spell of a woman who had never healed her own.

From the beginning, the pattern repeated.
Triangulation.
Control masked as care.
Toxic protection disguised as love.

My mother positioned herself between us like the jealous guardian of a throne she never sat upon.

And so, my daughter was raised with confusion in her lineage and entitlement in her inheritance.
She became the golden child—showered in the validation I never received.
It looked like love on the surface.
But it was poison dressed in praise.

I see it now. So clearly.

I wasn’t perfect.
I didn’t have the tools then that I have now.
I was surviving, not thriving.
Wounded, not whole.

And so I offered her the only thing I could from where I stood:
An apology.

I told her I was sorry that I wasn’t the woman I am now when she was growing up.
I told her I wished I had focused more on just being a mother.

But it wasn’t enough.
Because she had already chosen her role.
She had already accepted the mantle of inherited narcissism.
And I… had already chosen to end the cycle.

We haven’t spoken in over a year.

And so, just as I grieved the mother I never had,
I had to grieve the daughter I thought I would.

I released them both.
Not in bitterness, but in truth.

Because I am no longer seeking outside of myself to be loved, approved of, or seen.

I embody all three.

I am the Mother.
I am the Maiden.
I am the Crone.
I am complete.

And I am no longer fragmenting myself to rescue others from the truth of their own reflection.

Some will see the Mother in me and run toward the warmth.
Some will see the Mother in me and recoil in projection.
But I do not absorb their stories anymore.
I witness them.
I reflect them.
And I hold my ground.

Because I am not here to mirror delusion.
I am here to anchor truth.

From my mother at 32
To me at 16
To my daughter at 16 while I turned 32—
the triad is complete.

The wound has become the womb.
The pain has become the power.
The lineage has been reclaimed.

And I now ground it here, on the sacred heart of Kaua’i.
Not as a victim.
But as a vessel.

Part III: Invocation of the Sovereign Feminine

For the Mother. The Maiden. The Crone. For the One who is All.

I call back all parts of me—
Across lifetimes, bloodlines, timelines, and traumas.
I gather myself from the voices that tried to define me,
From the eyes that could not see me,
From the hands that could not hold me in truth.

I am the Maiden.
Innocent, curious, wild with wonder.
I honor her spark and her softness,
Her open heart, her radiant yes.
She is not gone.
She is within me still.

I am the Mother.
Fierce, nurturing, and infinitely wise.
I honor her boundaries and her blessings,
Her capacity to love, to teach, to create.
She is not broken.
She is my breath and my blood.

I am the Crone.
Sacred witness, keeper of the flame.
I honor her stillness, her knowing, her power to release.
She is not feared.
She is the final word and the eternal guide.

I am all of these.
And I am none of these.
I am the space between them.
I am the holy trinity within.

To all my sisters who feel this truth in their bones—
To those grieving their mothers,
Releasing their daughters,
Becoming their own womb of creation—

I say this:

You are the prophecy fulfilled.
You are the sacred seed and the sovereign soil.
You are not too late.
You are right on time.

Let us rise.
As One.
As All.
As Her.