From the moment I could walk, my mother made decisions for me.
What I wore. Who I played with. What classes I took in school. Even who I should date and when.
She called it “guidance.” I called it control.
By the time I was in my early 20s, I had learned to navigate around her influence — moving out, managing my own money, making choices without asking for permission.
But no matter how far I tried to go, she always pulled me back in.
She’d call daily, sometimes multiple times. Text me about things I didn’t ask for advice on. Drop by unannounced. Criticize my job, my home, even my weight — all under the guise of “just wanting what’s best.”
I told myself this was just how she showed love. That she meant well, even if it felt smothering.
Until one day, everything changed.
While helping her pack up her old house after a move, I found a dusty notebook tucked away in a drawer — her handwriting filled every page.
At first, I thought it was recipes or notes from work.
It wasn’t.
It was a journal.
And it was full of secrets.
One entry read:
“She deserves better than what I gave her. I never wanted to be like my mom… but I became exactly her.”
Another said:
“I’m afraid of being alone. That’s why I push too hard. But I don’t know how to stop.”
The more I read, the more I understood.
She wasn’t trying to hurt me.
She was scared.
Afraid of losing control.
Afraid of being forgotten.
So I confronted her.
“I found your journal,” I said.
“And I finally get it.”
She froze. Then started crying.
“I never wanted to make you feel trapped,” she whispered.
“I just didn’t know how to let go.”
That conversation changed everything.
We agreed on new boundaries.
Fewer calls.
No surprise visits.
Respect for my life as my own person — not just her child.
Now, we have a different kind of relationship.
Still imperfect.
Still emotional.
But real.
Because sometimes, the people who raised you are just as lost as you are.
And sometimes, the only way to heal is to finally understand where the pain came from.