Mother’s Day Grief

For some of us, Mother’s Day is not a celebration.

I sent my mother a card this year. A generic one. One that doesn’t reflect what we had or what we lost. We haven’t spoken in months. We’re estranged, and I’m still grieving her as if she were gone, even though she’s not.

Below is what I wish I could say to her. What I won’t say, because it won’t be received with understanding. But what I still needed to write. For myself. And maybe, for you too.

Content Warning: This post includes references to suicide, childhood sexual abuse, and family estrangement. Please take care while reading.

If I could speak to you freely, without fear or fallout, here’s what I’d want you to know about how I’m feeling this Mother’s Day…

When I was younger, we were best friends. I thought you walked on water, I wanted to spend all of my time with you, even when you prioritized your relationships with men over me. I wanted my dad, but I couldn’t relate to him the way I could to you. When I overdosed at 13, you were there to save me, even though you were part of why I no longer wanted to live. I felt like I could never please you, and you didn’t understand me as a teenager. I felt alone, unwanted. By dad, by you, by our family.

I remember the day when your father molested me.

My world was shattered. Everything I knew was gone. This was so incredibly traumatic, and you were there for me when I got home. I remember talking until sunrise about how awful it was and you were so validating and warm. I knew it would be okay, but I was so numb and dissociative. I barely remember that time. I couldn’t believe this happened only three months after I attempted suicide. 

Even through all of that, I acknowledge that you were my advocate with my poor health. The times I felt most  cared for was when I was ill. I remember all of the positive memories as well. I remember the sacrifices you made for me. I loved all of the concerts we went to. The gifts you would buy me even when you didn’t have the money. 

We moved to Virginia Beach, and this was the new start that we needed.

And then you and B got engaged. I ran away that day because I couldn’t believe you were giving him another chance after we had thrown out all of his stuff. I had finally found some semblance of peace and you were disrupting it. I felt so hopeless. I still had so long until I could be independent and I was tired of having men in and out of my life. This is when our relationship really began to change. I felt that you chose him over me.

When him and I got into that huge fight, you were silent. I had to defend myself, and I even defended you. I called my grandmother and my dad and told them I wanted to live with them. I couldn’t live with you anymore.

When I met M, this was the first stable person I ever experienced in my life. He made me feel safe for the first time in years. I remember the relief I felt when I moved out, away from B. Away from you.

Unsurprisingly, our relationship shifted for the better. 

We were so close, and yet I felt like your therapist. I knew everything about your marriage, and I thought this was normal.

Throughout my relationship with M, I loved how close he was to you and our family, especially after his mom died. Yet there were times where I felt like you often sided with him over me. You made my wedding a living nightmare. I look back on that memory with disgust and sadness (independently of how the relationship turned out).

I still resent you for that. You made everything about you and said such hurtful things. You never even apologized. You never have. Ever. 

As my marriage deteriorated, I called you and M to sit with me because the urge to die was back, and I wasn’t sure I could keep myself safe. You both sat on the bed where I laid, and stared at your phones while I was on the verge of wanting to end it all.

Yet somehow, I experienced profound clarity in that moment.

I knew things with M were over. I knew I couldn’t trust you anymore. In my darkest moments, I couldn’t depend on the people I called “family.” This was the first step to building my life worth living, and yet that memory still brings tears to my eyes. This was the moment I learned to trust in myself. 

You moved away, and so did I. You say this was the downfall of our relationship. What you don’t remember is that is the year that Trump got elected, and you voted for him. I watched you become more and more conservative, and increasingly hateful and prejudiced as you became closer to your brother and watched Fox News. This wasn’t the mother I knew. You taught me to love people regardless of their sexual identity or race, and yet the comments you would make made me so uncomfortable. The more I tried to express why they were inappropriate, the more you doubled down. Propaganda is a hell of a drug. 

When you came to Colorado after I moved, I felt like things had improved.

We fought, but we also made some of our best memories together. Going to Glenwood springs with together was the most fun I ever had with you. You were so present that day. That was the last time I had fun and felt connected to you, seven years ago. 

I started therapy not long after because the trauma continued to build and I didn’t have the skills to cope with it all. The suicidal thoughts were creeping back in. I sought help, and found the therapist that would help me shape my life into what it is today. 

In unpacking my childhood, I realized how unhealthy our relationship was.

I resented how you prioritized caring for your father over spending time with me and protecting me. He did something awful and his life crumbed, shouldn’t he experience the consequences of his actions? And yet, he found respite in your home, where he lived until he died. 

Not only that, but you contributed to the estrangement between me and my dad in childhood.

He wasn’t perfect, I know that. His next wife was terrible. But you played a role in preventing us from having a relationship. I know you did your best, and I still resent you for that. I’m sorry you had to raise me on your own, and maybe if you had better coping and interpersonal skills, it would have been less painful for both of us. You were always switching jobs, we were always moving. There wasn’t a lot of stability in my life until I was able to create it for myself. 

In 2019, when you came to visit, that trip was my worst nightmare.

I wanted to share with you my discovery about my sexuality, and you were cruel in return. You said so many mean things to me during that trip that I will never forget. I think I knew then that our relationship would never be the same. Since that Christmas in 2019, I have spent a total of 24 hours with you. Of course, I had to initiate that effort. I don’t expect to be spending much time with you in the future. Our values are completely different. I feel like I don’t know you anymore.

Even when I am at my most skillful, we don’t get along. You are unable to apologize or take any accountability for your actions. There is no space for me in this relationship. What kind of mother sends a picture of their dead parent to their child? Especially one that is a source of significant trauma. I don’t understand it.  When I asked you to not send pictures like that anymore, I did it with kindness. You turned on me and called me disrespectful and said that I had changed. 

It’s been over two months since I spoke with you, and I’m not sure that I want to again.

I don’t see a path forward without me making significant sacrifices, and I’m tired of putting forth effort that isn’t reciprocated. You aren’t a part of my life whatsoever anymore. You don’t know about my wonderful friends and community. You don’t know the healing that I’ve done in therapy (and as a matter of fact, you detest it and say that it’s changed me for the worse). You don’t know my hobbies or interests. You don’t know that I haven’t experienced suicidal ideation in a long, long time. You haven’t met my incredible partner. You don’t know that I finished my post doctoral masters. You don’t know that I help people in their darkest moments, that I make a difference in people’s lives. 

I joke to my friends and say “how many letters behind my name will it take for her to love me,” but the joke’s on me.

I know you love me, but you’ll never love me in the way that I need, and that hurts. I wish I had my mom. I look at my friends who have good relationships with their parents and I feel this overwhelming envy and grief that never dissipates. I feel guilt for not talking with you even though you have hurt me beyond measure. I feel alienated from my family, and that’s fine. I don’t fit in that family anymore. I accept that I am the black sheep. 

When I was looking for a Mother’s Day card for you, I wanted to cry when I read all the sweet cards, and immediately put them back.

I wish I could send one of those to you. I wish I was stressing out about what gift to get you and feeling sad that I can’t do more. Instead, I debated whether to even acknowledge you for Mother’s day. I wish I could send you this letter, but I know it won’t go over well. So instead, I will continue to feel my feelings and try to accept that you are who you are and you will never been who I want you to be. 

On Parental Estrangement

Estrangement from a parent is one of the most isolating and misunderstood forms of grief. There is no funeral, no formal goodbye, no collective mourning. Just silence. Just distance.

Sometimes it happens suddenly. Sometimes, like in my case, it’s death by a thousand paper cuts, boundary violations, and moments of not being believed, seen, or safe.

Estrangement doesn’t always come from hate. Often, it comes from love. The kind of love that finally has to love itself more. It is not a decision made lightly. It is not a failure. Sometimes it is the healthiest, most self-preserving option available.

How to Care for Yourself on Mother’s Day When You’re Estranged

• Name the truth. You’re not crazy or broken for having complicated feelings about your mom.
• Create your own ritual. Write a letter (like I did), light a candle, go for a hike, spend time with chosen family.
• Unfollow or mute accounts that trigger grief. Curate your feed with care.
• Connect with others who get it. You’re not alone. So many people carry this ache quietly.
• Let yourself feel the envy, sadness, or even numbness. There’s no “right way” to do Mother’s Day.

Your grief is valid. Your boundaries are sacred. Your story matters.

You are not alone.

If you’re navigating the pain of parental estrangement, you’re not alone. I understand how isolating and complex it can feel, and I’m here to offer a space where you can feel seen, heard, and supported.