A few days before the end of my son’s third-grade school year, every mother’s worst nightmare came true. As children and caregivers biked and walked to the school, a mother and her only child were killed in a freak traffic accident.
In the days that followed, my car drove itself to my friend’s house as if on autopilot. A group of moms gathered around her backyard table, their bodies needing to be near one another. Whether we were speaking or just sitting quietly, the thoughts hung in the air: it could have been any of us, I could lose everything in a split second, I must never forget to hold my people close, what must the family be going through, I don’t think I’d survive it, what an utter, unrectifiable tragedy.
Though my son and I were several cars back and didn’t witness the accident directly, my mind compulsively reconstructed the scene. I tried to understand what was impossible to understand. Had the boy spied a friend across the street and leapt toward him, only thinking of the hug they would share? At what moment did his mother go from her to-do list to realizing horror was unfolding? To what extent did she understand he was lost, and to what degree did she still think she could save him?
Most of all, I wondered what happened to the palpable thing—love—that vibrated between them. What became of the invisible but undeniable force that biology, chemistry, and soul seemed to weave between them? Where did it go?
So that I didn’t go insane, I developed this explanation: between the moments of the accident and the cessation of their biological lives, on some other plane of existence I can’t comprehend, an ultimate truth became clear to both of them. The love they shared did not end. Rather, it became part of something absolute and indestructible. I imagined them recognizing that what they had for and with one another was not different from the infinite goodness that lives in all beings. Nearly a year later, I still dedicate the merit of my practice to all beings—but especially to this mother and her son. I name them, as if doing so might help make it true.
In the wake of this tragedy, I began to wonder whether what we call "attachment" in mothers might not be delusion—but wisdom in its rawest, most embodied form.
Since then, I’ve contemplated the Buddhist teachings on non-attachment and how they relate to my visceral, biological, and constitutional attachment to my only child. I know everything ends. I know that being attached to anyone or anything reveals my unwillingness to face that fact. These teachings have supported me through aging, chronic pain, grief, and loss. Non-attachment has helped me loosen the grip of projections and expectations. But when it comes to my child’s safety and well-being, non-attachment feels not only impossible but almost inhumane.
"Attachment" is also the term used in neuropsychiatry to describe the relationship between a baby and primary caregiver—still most often the mother—and how it shapes the child’s long-term emotional wellbeing. I first encountered this through Dan Siegel’s The Power of Showing Up, as I tried to be present amid the roar of postpartum anxiety, depression, and OCD.
Studies have shown that securely attached children—those who feel safe, seen, and soothed—are more likely to become resilient, compassionate, and emotionally intelligent adults. These are the very qualities we cultivate in meditation: presence, compassion, equanimity. Is it not possible, then, that the mother’s devotion is not merely instinct but a transmission of wisdom?
We tend to view attachment as a behavior, but it arises from a radical rewiring of the mother’s brain. Biological or adoptive, a mother changes. Her vigilance sharpens, her attunement deepens, her empathy intensifies. Her brain becomes streamlined, trained like a monk or an elite athlete. She is flooded with pheromones, wired for protection, and rewarded for closeness. She will suffer—even feel physical pain—when separated from her child.
After giving birth, I became a light sleeper. I could hear my son through walls. My body lurched in panic if he slipped from view for a moment. I lost the capacity for deep adult conversation in his presence. He became the gravitational center of my attention. I also experienced disturbing intrusive thoughts—a common aspect of postpartum OCD—about the harm I might cause him. And yet, I also knew that I could protect him like no one else. The whole experience felt undeniably primal.
Had I known this beforehand, I might have reconsidered motherhood. But the truth is: this is the most challenging, fascinating, and sacred work of my life. As with all other aspects of my post-sobriety existence, I brought motherhood—this transformation called matrescence—to my Buddhist path.
When I began practicing, the mother was generally upheld as the image of unconditional love used to illustrate metta. But as my son grows and my practice deepens, I’ve noticed most of the teachers shaping my understanding of Buddhism are not mothers. And the teachings, while profound, often feel tame compared to the raw terrain of motherhood.
Jack Kornfield wrote: "Everything that has a beginning has an ending. Make your peace with that and all will be well." I can make peace with impermanence, suffering, and egolessness. But I cannot make peace with the idea of non-attachment to my child. If I were the mother losing (or having lost) her child, I would cease to exist.
And yet—was it not her attachment that propelled her toward him? Was that not also wisdom? Enlightenment, even?
What if the drive to love, protect, and remain connected to one’s child—even in the face of impermanence—is not spiritual immaturity, but a profound realization of interdependence?
If mothers are biologically rewired such that non-attachment to their children would violate their most basic creaturely drive, and if that drive creates the very conditions for secure, loving, moral beings to develop—beings who might then practice non-attachment themselves—is this not an expression of the mother’s Buddha nature? Is she not already embodying the bodhisattva vow? Is she not, in truth, a Mommysattva?
Perhaps we haven’t yet evolved a dharma that reflects the lived experience of mothers.
I’ve learned that fighting biology—whether through dieting, denying bodily needs, or rejecting maternal instinct—is aggression, not awakening. So why would I try to make my attachment to my son into anything else? This too is my path. And I suspect it could be a path for others.
I’m 50 now, and I want more complicated conversations. I want to hear from those who have raised children and tried to live ethically and spiritually in this world. Not anecdotes for social media, but heart-minds grappling with the impossible truths of both motherhood and dharma.
I know that motherhood, in all its contradiction and messiness, has made me a better Buddhist. And I believe that for the dharma to evolve, more of our teachers must be mothers. For that to happen, the mother’s path must be named, examined, and deeply valued. Not as an aside—but as a core expression of awakened life.
PS. I’ve actually written a book on this subject, check it out here.
Yes yes yes! Buddhism needs more women’s voices, more mother’s voices. I’m so happy to have you on my Buddhist path.
Thank you, again, for naming these truths. Of course we know the Buddha himself left his infant son to attain enlightenment. So it’s rather baked into the whole story. And yet - as you write here - my love for my daughter has changed me irreparably and has made me even more empathetic and compassionate for the world. This is also baked into the motherhood story. Why should the two be incompatible? Knowing ultimate reality doesn’t change the fact of the relative reality in which we’re living here on Earth, and if we’re householders, we’re not renouncing our Earthly lives. We live into them, we learn through them. Hopefully ultimate truth is illuminated through them. So this idea that goes against our biological grain - isn’t there also the quote about not believing that which goes against one’s own common sense and reason?