on cold mothers

Cold mothers are an archetype. We see them in a lot of regency or historical fiction media. Think of shows like Bridgerton or My Lady Jane, or books like Persuasion. They are, for the most part, entirely unlikeable. Cold, unaffectionate, sharp. Their tongues cut like swords and their lives are meticulous. 

I happen to love them; or, at least, I respect them. They are singularly driven by ambition and, I would argue, a fierce love for their daughters. They need, desperately, for their daughters to be safe and secure, a priority that comes before all else, including, often, displays of love and affection. Lady Featherington from Bridgerton and Jane’s mother in My Lady Jane are perfect examples. They are creatures born out of the lived experience of intense patriarchy and a lifetime of knowing that they will never truly have total control of their lives. Always, their lives rest in the palms of at best, inadequate, foppish, cowardly men, and at worst, violent, manipulative ones. They are wickedly funny and radiate an aura of power. Many fear them. Many despise them. I yearn for the women and mothers and sisters they could have been, given the opportunity to love outside of their cages, to hug their daughters without fear of losing them to a power-hungry man. Cold mothers: you will always have a piece of my heart.

There are more thoughts to be had on this, for sure. More to be researched, more to be written. But for now, this is here, for us to chew on. 

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