Becoming a writer, coming clean, and telling the truth of my experience saved my life, even as it further complicated my relationship with my mother.In 2010, I lost my job as a public school teacher when it became front-page news that I was writing and sharing stories of my sex-work past. On my last official day as a teacher, I published a heartfelt personal essay on The Rumpus . In it, I talked about the poverty I’d experienced as a kid, and how sex work was a means to socioeconomic opportunity. I talked about loss, and grief, and fear. I wrote of financial insecurity, and not knowing what I was going to do now that I’d just been rendered unemployable. I didn’t come out and say it, but at that time in my life, I felt tempted to return to the sex industry — which, by then, was work I’d grown to loathe. Instead, I talked about becoming a writer, and what my writing meant to me.Some days later, my mom sent me an email. In it, she complained I’d painted a “distorted picture of [my] oh so poor childhood.” She threatened to discredit me publicly if I continued to embarrass her in print.I wrote her back. I told her what I should have told her years ago, when she first confronted me about the fact that I was dancing: I said that I was sorry she was embarrassed by my work. I told her that I loved her; I loved her very much — but I would not stop living my truth.Even though I’m still figuring out where I stand with my own mother, I’ve recently begun reflecting on the kind of mother I’d make, given my particular circumstances. And I’ve realized that I’m not the only sex worker who has grappled with this.“There’s this painful thing that happens when you’re a sex worker and become a mother,” former sex worker Meg Vallee Munoz recently reflected . “You start to realize how incredibly intense a mother’s love is, yet start to question why your own mother’s love was not strong enough to reject stigma and accept you.”At 36 years old, newly engaged, and on the verge of starting a family of my own, I wonder if I haven’t questioned this long enough. Lately, my mom likes to talk about my upcoming wedding. I’m glad that I can give her that. Sure, a part of me wants to deny her the pleasure, just as I have felt denied and rejected for so much of my adult life. But the better part of me knows this attitude would only hurt me. We’ve both hurt for long enough.At the darkest times in my life, I didn’t think I’d ever have a family. Deep down, I feared I was unlovable. Damaged goods. I thought I would never want kids, and was afraid I wouldn’t make a very good mother. If I’ve learned anything from my relationship with my own mother, it’s that everyone needs permission to be who they are, even if that means making mistakes. I won’t make a perfect mom, but I’m sure I’ll do all right — because I know I’ll do my best. As for my relationship with my own mother, for now we accept each other as best we can, even as we struggle to accept ourselves.