5 Years Without Speaking to My Mom

A note before you read: As both a therapist and someone who has experienced generational trauma, I believe two things can be true at once: we can have compassion for the experiences that shaped our parents, while also acknowledging the harm those experiences caused us. This post reflects my personal experience and the boundaries that have been necessary in my own healing.

Choosing to stop talking to my mom was the easiest decision I could make for my well-being and one of the hardest decisions I have had to live with. As time passes, I continue to grieve the relationship I always hoped we would have. Despite everything, I still miss my mom. There are moments when I wish I could call her, lean on her, or simply have the kind of relationship I once imagined. Grief has taught me that it is possible to deeply love someone while also recognizing that a relationship with them is no longer healthy.

Years ago, depression, anger, and frustration took over my mother. Unfortunately, she carried (and continues to carry) resentment rooted in her own childhood. Before she ever had the opportunity to heal those wounds, she married young and became a mother, leaving little space to process or work through her own pain.

Rather than becoming a source of strength and stability for our family, she found herself with a partner who was also carrying unresolved emotional burdens. Together, they were unable to create the kind of home I needed as a child: a home where I felt safe, supported, and free to simply be a kid.

I remember my mom would continuously misplace her anger toward me. So I had to dodge her beatings, learn to sit alone when she locked me out the house, and try to outsmart her. I needed to stay alert, anticipate conflict, and be ready to defend myself at a moment’s notice.

She would sit alone in dark rooms, allowing depression to consume her. This was when I learned how deeply isolation can impact a person’s mind and emotional well-being.

She shut out family and friends. From a young age, I remember being told not to speak to people who had upset her. We became isolated from others because of conflicts that were never ours to carry. We became outcasts, and my dad allowed it to happen.

Over time, her need for control became stronger. She developed behaviors that made affection and connection feel difficult. She did not allow hugs without showering afterward or changing her clothes. As a child, I did not receive much physical affection, and these experiences later one reinforced the belief that touch was uncomfortable and something to avoid.

Nothing was considered trash. Everything had to be kept, and only she had permission to decide what could be thrown away. Over time, hoarding behaviors developed, creating an environment where letting go became nearly impossible.

Her need to control everything grew stronger with each passing day. Even now, she opens my mail without my consent. What is she looking for? I don’t know. But I imagine it may be one of the few ways she feels she can still maintain control over something outside of herself.

A moment to vent: the last interaction I had with my mom was at a family wedding last year. During the event, she became upset and approached me, telling me she was ready for a physical altercation if I was willing to engage.

Can you imagine hearing that from your own mom?

And my dad? From what I know, he never addressed the situation with her afterward. He stayed silent, as he often has throughout my life. One of my dad’s personality traits: avoidance.

So my dad does not get a pass from all of this either.

One of the most frustrating parts about my relationship with my dad is that, because he was largely absent during my childhood, we never had the opportunity to build a strong relationship in the first place. Now that he is older, I often see him fall into the role of the victim- afraid to assert himself or confront the realities of his relationship with his wife, my mom.

He struggles to acknowledge his own dissatisfaction with their marriage and the impact their dynamic has had on the family.

From what I witnessed growing up, their relationship was a constant cycle:

“I hate you, I love you.I hate you, I love you.Leave, come back.Leave, come back.”

That pattern shaped the environment I grew up in.

Even now, my dad struggles to acknowledge that my mom’s mental health has continued to decline. Instead of addressing the behaviors that have caused harm, he often enables them by remaining silent and avoiding conflict.

For a long time, I believed it was my responsibility to keep family matters private, as tradition often teaches us to do. Silence was viewed as a way of protecting the family, even when that silence came at the expense of my own healing.

However, over the past few years, I have found relief in allowing trusted family and friends to understand my experiences and offer support. Sharing the loneliness I carried, both in the past and the loneliness I still sometimes feel, has been met with compassion, reassurance, and love.

The support has been powerful.

That is my hope with this blog post: to remind others that expressing your truth can be freeing. Whether through writing, conversations, therapy, art, or whatever form feels right for you, your experiences deserve space to be acknowledged.

You do not have to carry everything silently.

As for me, I continue to practice self-awareness and recognize when I may be repeating patterns connected to generational trauma. Sometimes I am able to catch myself in the moment; other times, I need the support of those around me, like my husband, who can gently bring those patterns to my attention.

When that happens, I take time to reflect and process. I sit with the discomfort, try to understand where those reactions come from, and begin making sense of the emotions underneath them. My family, friends, and therapist help me bridge the gaps that I cannot always navigate on my own.

I still have a long way to go, but there is peace in knowing that I am doing the work.

Ultimately, the consequences of my mom’s actions and choices are very much present. Three out of her four children are no longer in contact with her. She lives by herself, carrying the weight of years of unresolved pain and patterns that have led her to this point.

Will she get better? I’m not sure.

Am I open to reconnecting someday? Yes, but only if she is willing to acknowledge the harm caused by her behaviors and take responsibility for her actions.

Will that happen? I’m not sure.

Until then, all I can do is continue moving forward and build a life surrounded by the people who choose to show up, love me, and support me.

I cannot force someone else to heal, but I can choose to continue healing myself.

And that is how the cycle ends- with me.