I Don’t Know How to Repair This, But I Want To.
I don’t know how to repair this. Not just the relationship with my mother, but the parts of myself that were shaped by it. The parts that learned to stay silent, to stay small, to stay agreeable. The parts that were punished for feeling anything other than happy. The parts that still flinch when someone raises their voice, even if it’s not angry. The parts that still wonder if I’m a bad daughter for choosing peace over proximity.
I’ve spent years trying to be good enough. Trying to be the version of me that wouldn’t trigger her. Trying to parent my own child without repeating the patterns I was raised in. And when I finally chose no contact, it wasn’t out of hate; it was out of necessity. I couldn’t keep letting her choose my daughter only when it was convenient. I couldn’t keep letting her rewrite the story while I swallowed the truth.
***
She threatened welfare checks. She got angry. She refused to validate anything that led me to that decision. And the rest of the family? They didn’t listen. They didn’t ask. They didn’t want to know what happened behind closed doors. They just saw a daughter walking away and assumed it was cruelty. But it wasn’t. It was survival.
And now, I’m here. In the quiet. In the space where I can finally breathe without wondering how she’ll react. My mental health is better. I feel freer. I don’t compare every decision to what she would think. I don’t live under her microscope. But still…she’s my mother. And that ache doesn’t go away.
I don’t know if I want to reach out. I don’t know if it would help or hurt. I don’t know if repair is possible. But I do know that I’m grieving the relationship I wish I could have had with her. Not the one we did have, that one needed to end. But the one I imagined. The one where I could speak freely. The one where I could say, “This hurt me,” and she’d listen. The one where I could explain how it all shaped me, and she wouldn’t turn it into an attack.
***
I don’t expect an apology. I’ve accepted that I’ll never get one. But I do want healing. I want to repair the parts of me that still carry her voice like a shadow. I want to be able to say, “I love her,” without feeling like I’m betraying myself. I want to be able to hold both truths: that she hurt me, and that I still care.
This post isn’t for her. It’s for the parts of my family who refused to listen. Who made me feel like my pain was too loud. Who told me I was selfish for setting boundaries. Who never asked what it cost me to stay. And for those who did listen. Who did stay. Who did comfort. I can never thank you enough. You’ve helped heal me in ways I could never explain.
I don’t know how to repair this. But I want to. Even if it’s just with myself.
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If this post resonated, here are a few others that might meet you where you are:
Cutting Off My Mother Wasn’t the End. It Was the Beginning: For the moment when estrangement becomes survival, and the quiet clarity of choosing peace over performance.
I Didn’t Leave Because I Was Brave. I Left Because I Had To: For the ache of walking away without apology, and the truth of choosing yourself even when it’s misunderstood.
I’m Allowed to Be Angry and Still Be Loving: For the tension between rage and tenderness
You’re not alone in this. Keep exploring at your own pace.
