Cutting Off My Mother Wasn’t the End. It Was the Beginning
I didn’t cut off my mother because I stopped loving her. I cut her off because I started loving myself.
It wasn’t one moment, it was years of small ruptures. Mocked tears. Dismissed pain. Criticism disguised as care.
I used to think I had to earn her softness. That if I just explained myself better, she’d understand. But every time I tried, I ended up feeling smaller.
So I stopped trying. And that was the beginning of something new.
Not peace. Not closure. But space.
Space to feel without being gaslit. Space to grieve without being mocked. Space to heal without being interrupted.
I don’t know if repair is possible. But I know I won’t chase it. Not until I can sit in a room with her and not shrink.
Until then, silence is my boundary. And that silence is sacred.
Not sure what you need today? Start with the Mood Map.
If this post resonated, here are a few others that might meet you where you are:
I Don’t Know How to Repair This, But I Want To: For the tension between longing and self-protection, and the quiet ache of wanting healing without knowing how to begin.
I Didn’t Leave Because I Was Brave. I Left Because I Had To: For the clarity that comes when survival is mistaken for cruelty—and the truth of choosing peace over proximity.
I’m Still Becoming, But I’m No Longer Hiding: For the quiet strength of staying gone, and the soft reclamation of identity after rupture.
You’re not alone in this. Keep exploring at your own pace.
