The Orphan Complex

An orphan: a child or young animal whose parents are dead.

My mother—my mommie—was my hero. She was my mentor, my example, my confidant, my protector, and my friend. She was my everything. I revered her. She dedicated her entire life to making my life better. To me, she was the very image of a virtuous woman.

I spent so much of my life afraid that she would leave, terrified that I would be alone because no one could ever understand me the way my mother did.

My mother made me feel seen and heard. She always listened to my thoughts, fears, and desires. She constantly reminded me that I could accomplish anything I set my mind to. When she looked into my eyes, I felt love, light, and the truth that I was a gift. She told me I was wanted, I was loved, and that I was her miracle child—because at birth, the enemy had tried to take me. My parents took me home from the hospital expecting me to die. That experience only intensified my mother’s nurturing. She treated me as an invaluable gift from God.

My mother walked with grace, but her strength was like a raging storm—telling every wind, “You cannot knock me down.”She had a passion for people, especially children. She never wanted anyone to feel like they didn’t belong. Her love was immeasurable—she made each of her children feel as though their portion of love was hand-crafted just for them.

My daddy, on the other hand, though physically strong and towering, lived with visible wounds and brokenness. I believe the first time he truly experienced agape love was through my mother—and that was a double-edged sword. In his early years, fear of losing her made his need for control deepen, which fueled his abusive behaviors.

One of the greatest acts of my mother’s strength and sacrifice was her decision to leave my father—for her children’s sake. If she had not been able to put our needs above her attachment to him, she might have stayed in that unhealthy relationship.

Despite my father’s wounds, to me, he was still a hero. He was a strong, towering giant who always came running when I needed him. He called me his Princess. It was as if, in the middle of all the chaos and flaws in his life, even an ogre needed a princess to protect.

My father and I walked through many hills and valleys, but in his final years, we formed a bond rooted in friendship, understanding, and mutual respect.

My mother passed away when I was 22. That loss haunted me for years. I struggled—and still sometimes struggle—to accept that her light was removed from my existence. When she died, a part of me died with her: my hope, my innocence, my optimism, even some of my strength. It felt like the air was pulled from my lungs. In an instant, I knew nothing in my life would ever be the same.

Slowly, though, a metamorphosis began. It was as if God transplanted the best parts of her into my spirit. Those parts cradle me in the night. They whisper, “Keep going, my daughter. I am so proud of you.”Those parts give me strength in my weakest moments. Those parts comforted both my father and me, drawing us closer after she was gone.

Twenty years after losing my mother, my father was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. That season became a pivotal and sacred time in rebuilding our relationship. I was his caretaker. He relied on me. He trusted me. Those years were God’s gift to both of us.

But when I lost my dad, something else happened. Something many may not understand—especially coming from a grown woman.

When my father closed his eyes, I became an orphan.

Not legally. Not physically. But emotionally and spiritually, I felt uncovered. Unprotected.I felt parentless—without that unconditional love that only a parent can give.

Yes, I had children. I had family. I had God. But there is something profoundly different about living in a world where no living parent exists. It feels like being a turtle without a shell… a baby bird without a nest… like someone stole your cocoon.

It makes you feel alone in a way that defies explanation, no matter your age.

When my mom passed, my greatest fear became reality—the fear of living without her love, her understanding, her wisdom, her comfort. That loss took me to very dark places. Even when the light began to return, it never shined the same.

When my dad passed, it wasn’t hopelessness—it was a deep, quiet void. A silent place inside myself that no one can see. A place where I had to figure life out alone.

I show up in the world as a strong, assertive, competent woman—because I must. My parents instilled that in me. I show up as a compassionate mother, friend, and family member—because their love taught me how.

But deep inside, I live in a quiet place. Like a little child standing in the middle of an ocean, waiting for the rescue ship.

That is the feeling of being orphaned. That is the Orphan Complex. And it never fully goes away.

I know God is my parent. I know God is my comforter. My orphan complex doesn’t take anything away from God’s love. If anything, I believe God is the only One who fully understands it. Jesus Himself felt it—nailed to the cross—when sin caused the Father to turn away, and He cried out:

“Father, why have You forsaken me?”

For those who can relate to the Orphan Complex, hear me:

You are not alone.

God will hold you and anchor you forever.

The spirit of your parents lives inside you—breathing strength, resilience, and love into your journey.

You carry them.

You reflect them.

You honor them every time you keep going.

Run your race until you meet them again.

Amen.