I Don’t Like When My Children Touch Me—And That’s Okay.
A mother of three writes about her aversion to touch and how she manages it.
Illustration by Mikki Boom.
“Hi. My name is Mallori and when my children hug me, it makes my skin crawl.”
In my dreams, I say this to a group of individuals who, sharing a similar issue, gaze back at me with understanding and compassion. In my nightmares, the townsfolk grab their pitchforks and burn my ass at the stake. In reality, I do know that speaking this out loud is not without consequence because we live in a world that loves to hate mothers.
But back to how I’m a complete monster. It’s true that when my children hug me, it makes my skin crawl. It goes beyond hugging, too—I actually have to force myself to kiss and cuddle my children. It often feels like a business transaction.
At bedtime, my daughter, Luna, requires 2-3 hugs and approximately a dozen kisses, all before she will let me turn off the light. I stand outside her bedroom door for a few moments, take some deep breaths, gather myself, and do my motherly duty. Once the light is out and her door is closed for the night, it takes another few minutes for me to shake the ick and feel like myself again.
I gave birth to my son, Dylan, when I was 20 years old. I was suffering from extreme postpartum psychosis and I found it hard to touch him almost instantly. Two years later, I gave birth to my second child, Levi, and my experience was exactly the same. My ex-husband would strap him to his chest and take him to work while I laid in bed and mourned my decision to bring him Earthside.
When Luna was born, I breastfed her for almost a year and a half. My mother would joke and say, “That baby is always attached to her.” She was right. If Luna wasn’t feeding, she was strapped to my body in a baby carrier. She was (and still is) my pride and joy. My experience in raising Luna was starkly different than with my two older boys, a fact I attribute to my age, financial stability, and several years of therapy. I fully expected my reaction to her touch once she grew out of the baby stage to also be different. However, I found myself in the same place once again.
It’s hard to explain to anyone who has not suffered from postpartum psychosis how my actions did not seem selfish, but rather felt necessary. I viewed myself as an unfit mother who brought not one, but two children into the world without any foundation. I could not promise them a stable life, and this made me feel worthless. After all, becoming a mother is natural, but I couldn’t even bear to hold my own babies. What did this say about me?
After seeking treatment and learning how to ease into motherhood, I still noticed my inability to relax and cuddle the boys. When we watched movies on the couch, I often found excuses to sit elsewhere - let me fold these clothes on the floor beside the couch; my back hurts so I need to sit in this chair closest to the outlet for my heating pad; I’ve had a cold so you guys shouldn’t get too close to me. I can count on one hand how many times I cuddled my boys who are now ages 14 and 16.
An adverse reaction to touch is not uncommon. However, it is usually rooted in PTSD stemming from trauma such as rape or child abuse. I did not experience either of these horrors as a child or young adult, and it completely vexed me. I started to look into other parts of life and take note. I often felt suffocated when a partner tried to cuddle me. I found massages intrusive. I would make excuses to avoid joining my friends for manicures and pedicures. Hugs as greetings made me feel anxious and overwhelmed. I preferred my space, my bubble.
In 2021, I read a Psychology Today article about the Japanese concept of “skinship”. Skinship suggests (and has been proven through scientific research) that individuals who practice skin-to-skin contact in all facets of their life are, well, just happier. It exceeds bonding between parents and infants, and moves into other relationships: intimate partners, friends, close family. These researchers also noted that varying attachment styles in adults were often established during childhood, and individuals who recoiled from the touch of another human being had developed an avoidant attachment style.
Self-reflection and lots of therapy revealed to me that my issue was rooted in fear of losing people close to me. My childhood was not terrible, but it was not easy. My parents’ divorce left me without either a mom or a dad (depending on the day of the week) at an age where I was young and vulnerable. Moving to a new city as a child also left me without close family and friends, including my brother who chose to stay behind with my father. Unexpectedly losing my grandmother to cancer at the peak of adolescence solidified this notion that nothing is permanent, especially people. My brain decided to protect me the best way it knew how. Cue my reluctance to touch as a means of detachment.
While it is nice to have the understanding that I’m not a monster, my inability to be naturally affectionate with my children still weighs heavy on my heart. I think about how as a child, our safe place is often the arms of our parents. My very first memory is that of reaching up to my grandmother and having her pick me up. I feel immense guilt for not providing this safe space for my older boys, as they truly bore the brunt of my spatial misgivings.
I hope Luna never noticed how my skin tenses slightly when she comes running through the door after school and jumps into my arms, or how when we watch movies together on the couch, I always insist on being under my own blanket - “no trespassers allowed!” I’ve learned to breathe through the knot that builds up inside my chest when she wakes me on Saturday mornings by smothering me in kisses. But no amount of coping mechanisms will ever replace the heartbreak of experiencing discomfort while attempting to comfort my child.