Trigger Warning: Abuse, Mental Health Struggles
I don’t love my mother.
I can already anticipate the well-meaning voices asking, “But don’t you love her at all?” The answer is no. I don’t feel guilty about this because she never loved me first.
It was only when I heard another estranged child say, “They didn’t love me first,” that I recognized the validity of my feelings. He was right. Our parents often initiate this cycle. We devote our childhoods to loving them in hopes of receiving that love in return. Many individuals spend their adult lives trying to earn their parents’ affection, too. It’s entirely valid to reach a point where you realize you can no longer hold onto that love, especially when it was never reciprocated. The truth is, we often love the concept of our parents—an idealized version—rather than the reality of who they are.
I feel judged for my lack of love for my mother, and I can understand why. Many people have healthy relationship templates thanks to nurturing parents. They try to empathize with my situation, but they can’t fully grasp it. Their mothers are not like mine. In reality, my mother wasn’t a nurturing figure at all. I became her caretaker, the one who shielded her from her own emotions and missteps. This love was tangled with anxiety, desperation, and a constant feeling of inadequacy. I believed that if I loved her fiercely enough, she might love me back—if only when it suited her.
For 24 years, I loved my mother, and it was a painful experience that took a toll on my mental well-being. I forgave her repeatedly, adapted myself to be more likable, and took on responsibilities that were not mine. I treated her like a child, allowing her to escape accountability for her actions. I was overprotective, shielding her from everything, including the consequences of her own choices.
Perhaps, in some ways, I contributed to her negative behavior. I had good intentions but ended up enabling her dysfunction. However, I was just a child, shaped by the circumstances she imposed on me. I thought my devotion would earn her love, thinking it would make me worthy.
When I say I no longer love my mother, I don’t think people recognize the depth of my past love for her. They overlook the fact that freeing myself from that love has been liberating. Society often emphasizes the importance of “honoring thy mother and father,” but how can I honor someone who deserves no respect?
The most painful realization is that my mother shows no remorse. Reflecting on my childhood, I can’t recall a moment when she acknowledged her wrongdoings. She didn’t apologize when she put me and my sisters in harm’s way, leading to our abuse. She never expressed regret when we struggled with mental health issues or when her harsh words eroded our self-esteem.
Unlike most mothers who experience “mom guilt,” my own seemed incapable of feeling anything but blame. It was always my fault. I vividly remember a time when she exploded in anger over trivial matters and, as I struggled to breathe outside her room, she blamed me for panicking. She could hear me gasping for air but felt nothing.
Sometimes, it wasn’t her actions that hurt the most; it was her inaction. When I faced bullying, she picked apart the situation, suggesting it was my fault for how I looked or acted. The absence of support, validation, and loyalty cut deeper than any criticism. She never stood by me—she understood why the bullies targeted me because she was my first bully.
She failed to protect me from bullies, from my father’s harshness, and from the abuse I endured. Yet, I always protected her. I was a good daughter, kind and loyal, forgiving her time and again.
Eventually, I reached a breaking point in adulthood where I had to distance myself. It wasn’t a choice I wanted to make; it felt necessary for my survival. People often misunderstand the complexity of estrangement. It’s not a decision taken lightly; it feels like no choice at all.
I know I wouldn’t have survived had I stayed in that environment, both emotionally and physically. Her lack of love once pushed me to contemplate ending my life, making me feel unworthy and hopeless.
Choosing not to love her has given me back my power, allowing me to embrace life as it is. I no longer crave her approval and have accepted that she never truly loved me. Letting go of that love has been an arduous journey, but it’s the best decision I’ve ever made.
I don’t withhold love from her because I’m a bad person; I do it because I am brave and committed to my healing. I choose to invest my love in my sisters, my husband, and my daughter—all the people who enrich my life. Why waste love on someone who brings me pain when I can share it with those who make my life meaningful?
I don’t love my mother because I value myself too much to allow her to hurt me again.
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Summary:
The author shares her experience of estrangement from her abusive mother, expressing that she does not love her due to the lack of reciprocal affection and emotional support throughout her life. The narrative emphasizes the pain of growing up with a parent who failed to protect her and instead contributed to her suffering. Ultimately, the author finds freedom in releasing the need for her mother’s approval and chooses to focus on relationships that bring joy and validation.