I used to think my mom was okay—nothing special, but not terrible either. That changed fast when I hit around thirteen. It was like she flipped a switch and suddenly decided that everything I did or said needed to be criticized. She turned into this controlling, bitter, passive-aggressive woman who always needed to be right. I couldn’t even express myself without her jumping down my throat. One time, I came home excited about getting a role in a school play—my first real chance to be noticed—and she straight-up asked, “Do you think anyone even wants to watch you?” Like… what?? That stung. She’d always nitpick my clothes, my friends, even my laugh. She’d make fun of how I talked when I tried using bigger words, and if I ever cried or pushed back, she’d go on and on about how I was “too sensitive” or “just like my father,” like that was the worst insult ever. Her words were weapons. And I didn’t have armor yet.

Teen years were hell. I was grounded constantly, mostly for talking back, which was really just me standing up for myself. She hated that. She didn’t want a daughter; she wanted a doll she could pose and mute. I remember this one time—I was fifteen—she told me I looked like a slut because I wore shorts and a tank top. We were at home. Just us. Who was I dressing for? The furniture?!?? I still think about that. It made me hate my body. Made me scared of showing skin. And don't get me started on the times she’d snoop through my phone or read my journal and then bring up things I’d written like it was casual dinner conversation. “So, you think I’m a narcissist?” she once asked, sipping her coffee. What was I supposed to say to that?!?? I couldn’t breathe around her. I couldn’t exist without judgment. She twisted love into something sharp. Something I didn’t want anymore.

But now I’m 21, and I’ve started seeing her not just as my mom but as a person. Flawed. Maybe broken. Maybe stuck in her own unresolved trauma. Doesn’t mean I forgive everything, but it makes it a little easier to not carry all that hate around. I still don’t trust her—I keep my distance, emotionally at least. But I want to heal. I want to stop being angry all the time. I want to be better than what she gave me. I have friends who’ve become my family. I’ve started therapy. I’m learning how to love myself without her voice in my head. Still… I ask myself: why do I hate my mom? Is it because she failed me, or because I needed her to be someone she couldn’t be? Maybe both; Maybe you’ve felt that too. Maybe you’re reading this wondering if you’re the only one—trust me, you’re not. It sucks. It hurts. But it gets better. It can get better.

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