Breaking the Cycle: Finding Peace in a Challenging Mother-Daughter Relationship
Learning to Let Go of Old Patterns and Embrace a New Way of Relating
No matter how much I try to forgive and move forward, being around my mom too much always seems to bring me back to the unresolved pain and anger I thought I had healed.
For years, I’ve craved a relationship with my mom that’s filled with unconditional love and acceptance, but every time we spend more than three solid days together, old wounds resurface. Then, buried resentments come rushing back, like gasoline adding fuel to the fire—I explode.
Our last fight was my worst blow-up in a long time, but it also came with some of the greatest lessons.
After living in Mexico and Austin, Texas, I returned to North Carolina, where my parents live. My brother was visiting from South Africa, so I soaked up as much time with him as possible since we only see each other once or twice a year. This meant spending more time with my parents. I’m the black sheep of the family, always the rebel, “marching to the beat of my own drum,” as my mom likes to say. Even though I trust the path I’ve chosen, a part of me has always craved their approval.
However, this visit felt different.
I was in one of the best emotional and spiritual places I’ve ever been. I had just come out of a dark night of the soul, feeling deeply connected to the Creator. I spent a week at the beach before coming home, which always lights up my soul. I was at peace in my heart and clear on my purpose.
For once, I didn’t feel the need for their approval or love—I knew I was held and guided by Spirit.
The first week went well. I maintained the sense of fullness and joy I’d felt in the previous weeks. I was able to let things roll off my back, staying centered. But early in the second week, both my parents started getting under my skin. My dad made comments about my finances and needing a “real” job, while my mom slipped in small jabs that felt designed to put me down.
Then, I hit my breaking point.
After years of struggling with gut issues, I’m very protective of my health. Let’s be honest, I can be downright OCD about certain things—especially kitchen cleanliness. While handling raw pork, I asked my mom, “Please be mindful of what you touch—pork is one of the most parasite-ridden meats there is!” She huffed and puffed, as if my request was a huge inconvenience. This wasn’t our first fight about food stuff; my family has mocked me for years for eating organic and avoiding food allergens and ignored my requests for food safety. Her lack of concern for my health infuriated me. “I’m trying to keep myself healthy!” I shouted as I stormed out of the house.That afternoon, I sat on the deck, mentally preparing for dinner with my family—my brother’s last night in town—but I felt overwhelmed. Normally, I would have avoided my mom altogether, but I wanted to be with him.
The only way I felt like I could get through it was by drinking.
Alcohol has never been the answer for me. In my teens and early 20s, I struggled with it, and while I use it much less now, I still sometimes lean on it when I’m overwhelmed to the point where I feel I can’t breathe. I knew it wasn’t the solution, but I didn’t trust myself to get through the dinner without it. So, I opened a bottle of Chardonnay and poured a glass, holding it to my heart—If I was going to engage in a misaligned activity, I was at least going to be intentional about it. I prayed, asking God for clarity and a shift in perspective.
I hadn’t eaten much that day—just half a protein bar—and my tolerance was low from rarely drinking. I didn’t even make it to dinner.
I woke up around 4 a.m. in my mom’s bedroom. Confused, I thought, “Why am I here? What happened last night?” I hadn’t felt that overwhelming sense of dread in almost 15 years. I tried to calm myself down, but I was terrified I’d done something horrible and ruined my brother’s last night in the US. When I heard stirring in the kitchen, I sulked out like a dog with its tail between its legs.
“How are you feeling?” my brother asked, with a tone that told me last night wasn’t good.
I replied, “Hungover. I don’t know what happened.” He proceeded to tell me I came in, started screaming at our mom, then passed out on the balcony. She had to help me get to her bed. And so, the shame and blame game began again. I felt like a failure for not showing up with love, fueling the false belief that “I am a bad person.” I questioned if I’d grown at all, despite nearly 15 years of intense personal growth work, but deep down, I knew that wasn’t true.
The truth is, we never spiral downward. We receive the lessons we need to continue ascending, melting deeper into love, and freeing ourselves. You can’t unknown or unbecome what you’ve grown into knowing or being.
I’ve spent so much of my life being angry at my mom and just as much time trying to forgive her. I’ll think I’ve finally done it, that I can love her unconditionally, only for something to trigger me and send me spiraling back into my defensive teenage self. After fights like this, I usually shame my mom, making it all her fault, or I apologize out of guilt for “not being a better person.” This time, I decided to just give it space. I told her I wasn’t ready to talk but assured her we would eventually.
As time passed, I gained clarity. My prayer had provided the perspective shift I needed.
I realized that my anger hasn’t been with my mom at all—it’s been with myself for not handling things differently. I also saw that I create many of the problems in our relationship. I keep expecting her to behave differently but treat her as though I know she won’t. I want her to listen, to validate what matters to me, but I show up immediately on the defense, not listening to her. Conflict arises because I automatically assume I need to protect myself from her, and then the fights begin.
I can’t expect her to change, but I can change how I show up.
While meditating with my feet in the water, the answer—the peace I needed—came to me: “I don’t want to fight with her anymore. I forgive her.” And now, I’m declaring to myself, to God, and to anyone reading, “I am done fighting! I forgive my mom!” I pray I can stick to it. I know I won’t be perfect, but I will give myself grace. By loving myself when I do react, instead of beating myself up, I will continue to heal the mother wound.