I cut ties with my mother nearly two years ago. Since that day, there has been silence between us, and she has yet to meet my youngest child.
It’s a harsh reality that sometimes the person who brought you into this world and was meant to provide you with unconditional love may not fulfill that role. This is my experience with my mother.
There were fleeting moments when she tried to be present, but they quickly faded, leaving me to deal with the aftermath as a child. It was painful and disheartening, leading me to the point where I could no longer maintain a relationship with her. So, I made the decision to cut ties. Unlike previous attempts, I have kept her out of my life since then. I’ve established boundaries, prioritizing my well-being and that of my family, who depend on me to show up as my best self. Carrying years of emotional baggage only drags me down.
As a preteen, I promised myself I would never mirror my mother’s behavior. Each time she hurt, abandoned, or betrayed me, I resolved to be her complete opposite. I would be there for my children every single day. I would invest in my relationship with them. I would meet their needs—mentally, emotionally, and financially. They would have the unwavering love and support they deserved. I would strive to provide them with the best life possible and choose a partner dedicated to the same goals.
These were profound sentiments for a 10-year-old, but I had to mature swiftly.
In many respects, I have succeeded in upholding my vow. I have three incredible children who fill my heart with joy daily. Each one is unique, and I couldn’t imagine life without them. I’m immensely proud to be their mother. As for their father? He’s my best friend—everything I envisioned and more. An exceptional dad and partner, my love for him grows each day. I chose wisely.
Most days, I feel I’m doing well. But as my own harshest critic, I often let guilt consume me over trivial matters, fearing my children might one day resent me or distance themselves, feeling as I do about my own mother. The mere thought of being cut out of their lives, missing family gatherings, or not being able to contact them sends me into a panic, causing a crushing weight in my chest—a nightmare scenario.
Like any parent, I have my off days. I lose my temper, struggle with patience, and sometimes feel overwhelmed. In those moments, I see fragments of my mother’s behavior reflected in myself. I think, “This is it, Jess. You were supposed to break the cycle, but here you are, messing it up just like her,” and that guilt is suffocating.
Instead of recognizing these as normal challenges and vowing to improve tomorrow, I dwell on them. I lose sleep, envisioning the negative effects my actions might have on my kids, worrying they will forever remember my mistakes and resent me as adults.
At times, I wonder if this is my karma—my punishment for not accepting my mother as she is and not enduring her behavior for the sake of being the “bigger person.” Enduring emotional abuse and manipulation feels like a penance for simply existing.
It’s a complicated situation, and I recognize it’s a result of having a mother like mine; it can leave deep scars.
I’ve learned to cope with my feelings about my childhood and manage my mom guilt as best I can. I understand I will always be a work in progress, and I’ve accepted that I will have my moments of imperfection because no one can be a flawless parent. That expectation is unrealistic.
While I may not be perfect, I am a good mom. I excel at nurturing, loving, and supporting my kids because I show up every day. I’m present when it’s easy and when it’s challenging. More importantly, I genuinely want to be there for them. I want my children to know they are the center of my universe. I want them to feel my unconditional love and to understand how much I cherish our family.
I strive to ensure they know they are safe with me and that they are deeply wanted and loved. I want them to feel they can share anything with me, and I will always be their safe haven.
I am doing what I promised myself I would do—providing them with what I never had and fulfilling my childhood vow to be unlike my mother. Sure, bits of her may surface occasionally, triggering moments of panic and guilt. But I remind myself: I am not my mother.
I am committed to doing better, to admit my mistakes, and to keep showing up for my children, even when it’s hard. This is what being a mom is all about.
Just the other day, I asked my oldest child, my daughter, “Do you know how much Mama loves you?” She replied without hesitation, “Of course, I do, Mom.”
I believe my children will be just fine. If you find yourself in a similar situation—striving to be a better parent despite your own challenging upbringing—your kids will be all right, too.
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