The walls I build. And cats.

My daughter wanted to snuggle in bed with me last night.

I said no.

It was late(ish), around 9:30, and I just wanted to be by myself, with my tea and a book. And maybe a cat, if I was lucky.

I know that it’s fine—healthy, even—for parents to want, and protect, some alone time.

Except.

This is the scene that plays out in my house almost every single night.

She wants to snuggle. And I don’t. Her need to be physically near me feels like an encroachment into my personal space, rather than the beautiful thing that it is:

my child wanting to spend time with, and be loved by, her mom.

My parents were not physically affectionate when I was growing up—with each other, or with my brother and me. In fact, I didn’t even know that other people hugged to say hi, or just when they needed to feel connection, until I met my best friend in college. She and her family were, and still are, big huggers. That was a revelation to me.

One of the things I find myself longing for the most in life is intimacy. To have someone envelope me in their arms, to feel their warmth, to feel loved and protected. And yet, when my daughter comes to me, asking for those very same needs to be met, I shut her down.

It’s not just her, though. There are times when my husband will walk over to me in the kitchen, while I’m making dinner, and pull me in for a hug. My immediate reaction is to stiffen-up. Doesn’t he know I’m in the middle of prepping food? That I just had a long day at work, and now I’m just trying to make it through my second job as mom? I don’t have time for this.

I’ve always believed that if I could be any animal, I would be a cat. I used to think it was because I envied how they’re able to sleep all day, soaking up the sunlight, without a care in the world. How luxurious would that be? But now I also wonder if I identify with cats so much because they only respond to physical affection on their terms.

They let you know when they want to cuddle. They’ll demand it by climbing into your lap and kneading on your legs (or on your neck while you’re sleeping, if you’re my 15 year old tabby, Tobe). But if you try to initiate some feline lovin’ when they’re not in the mood, well, they’ll let you know that, too.

Cats do not give any shits.

I, however, do give some shits. And yet, even though I recognize that my daughter wanting to snuggle with me is a beautiful and vulnerable expression of her need for love and connection, it makes me defensive for some reason. My walls stiffen up.

How is it possible that one of the things I want most for myself (and have been lacking for most of my life)—physical affection—is also one of the things I’m most resistant to giving to (or accepting from) the people I love?

Did not experiencing that kind of emotional intimacy as a child make me incapable of experiencing it now? Am I repeating the same thing my parents did? Am I fucking up my own kids?

I want to want to snuggle. To be hugged in the middle of the kitchen.

I just don’t know how to get there.

And it makes me so, so, so damn sad.