Estranged and at Peace: A Different Kind of Mother’s Day Story

A reflection on estrangement, chosen family, and redefining what it means to be mothered

May 08, 2025

Mother’s Day is a deeply confusing holiday for me. I am motherless— by necessity. My mother estranged herself from our entire family years ago, and in many ways, we’ve all estranged ourselves from her. The feeling was deeply mutual. That’s not something I say lightly. But I say it courageously, and clearly: not having my mother in my life has brought me enormous…relief.

I hesitated for years to admit that. To speak it out loud felt like betraying some invisible, cultural oath. The myth of the good daughter. The expectation that mothers—no matter how cruel, harmful, or absent—should still be loved, cherished, praised. But that expectation does not account for reality. For nuance. For the lived experience of those of us who tried everything. Who called and wrote and pleaded and softened and toughened and shapeshifted until there was nothing left of ourselves. And still, nothing changed.

My Mother was my soul’s leech. My crazy maker, as Julia Cameron from The Artist’s Way would say. We did not get along. A divorce from my father and “the unforgivable sin” of being like him hung over me. It was a scar I could not get rid of. I spent most of my life trying to win her affection, her love, her support—but it was her manipulation, her rigidity, her crude manner, and the way I reminded her of him that made the relationship unbearable.

Over time, I learned something devastating and liberating: it is nearly impossible to receive love from a mother who does not love herself.

But don’t get me wrong—I tried. I made attempts to repair. I asked her to come to therapy. I found compassion. I offered to go to counseling together, to work on things. But she does not believe in therapy—not for herself, not for us, not for anything. And how can you fix something when the other person doesn’t even acknowledge it’s broken?

Years ago I had to face a painful truth: this is not a relationship that is meant for me. And in any other circumstance—any other dynamic, with any other person, I would never allow myself to be diminished, neglected, dismissed, emotionally-abused, and abandoned over and over again . And yet, I did. For years. Why? Because it was my mother.

Until the day I walked away….Until the moment I decided no more.

Not in anger. Not with resentment. But with clarity. It took years—of therapy, of meditation, of hard hard self work, of building a new kind of relationship to myself, one of worth, love and acceptance. I can proudly say I am as close to inner peace as I have ever been….And dare I say, in many ways, I am so much better off.

Until this week….

The Dreaded Week

Every year, I live calmly in the truth of my life. I’ve accepted it. And then the second week of May rolls around. Suddenly, I’m bombarded and overwhelmed by sentimental Instagram posts and pastel product placements—brands selling candles and cookware and throw pillows “for Mom.” And just like that, the dread arrives.

It hangs in the air.

Here we go again, I think. An annual reminder of the one wound I’ve worked so hard to heal but still have to live with. Like grief or loss, estrangement doesn’t disappear. It just changes shape. You learn how to hold it.

And if estrangement was chosen with integrity and aligned values, you also learn how to find deep, unimaginable peace.

We live in a time where going no-contact is both trending and misunderstood. Boomers write op-eds about their “ungrateful” children who’ve cut them off. Entire essays framed in disbelief, unable to reckon with the fact that perhaps the kids aren’t wrong. And yes, sometimes estrangement is impulsive, premature, reactionary. But I’m not a teenager. I’m a grown woman. And I didn’t make this decision casually.

There is a specific kind of Mother’s Day-induced burnout that hits my body like clockwork every year. It’s not just emotional—it’s physiological. And according to science, there’s a reason. We are biologically wired to bond with our mothers. Humans are the only species that remain dependent on a caregiver for over a decade. And for so many of us, that caregiver is our mother.

But biology doesn’t protect you from neglect. Or manipulation. Or abandonment. In fact, that deep biological wiring is exactly what keeps so many of us stuck in toxic family systems.

For those of us who have chosen to walk away, it’s not because we didn’t care—it’s because we cared for far too long.

To My Chosen Mothers

Which brings me back to this holiday.

Mother’s Day has always been framed around the biological mother. And frankly, it does a poor job of acknowledging the complexity, the absence, and the truth of the many different ways we come to understand mothering. To mother and to be mothered is not exclusively a biological event—it is an act. A verb. A decision.

I’ve learned that the love I needed didn’t disappear when I lost the hope of having it from my own mother. It simply arrived in other forms. Through other people.

Through chosen mothers.

One of the greatest blessings of my life is the countless people who have stepped in—who have shown up and mothered me when I needed it most. I love all of you. You know who you are. My Dad. My Godmothers. My Brother. My former babysitters. My mentors. My Uncles. My Aunts. My family friends. My best friends. My cousins. My teachers. My clients. You are the ones who have helped tend to the wound. And because of you, it heals me inch by inch, day by day.

For anyone reading this who dreads this day, who feels the ache, the absence, or the awkwardness—I want to remind you that being motherless does not mean you are broken. Or wounded. Or unloved.

In fact, it means the opposite.

You are free to be mothered by many.

You are open to receive love in expansive, abundant, unexpected ways.

While I am not a religious person, I am spiritual. I believe that my life—and the path I’ve taken—has unfolded this way for a reason. I believe earnestly and honestly that I was meant to redefine what mother means. I was meant to learn that mothering is not something you beg for—it is something you recognize, receive, and give. And in that recognition, you are made whole.

I look forward to continuing to mothering myself and to being a mother one day.

To rewiring the generational trauma I was handed.

To creating something different, softer, safer.

And if nothing else, I dedicate this piece to my Dad and my Grandma Mary—the “Mothers” who stepped up. Who loved me and my sister with a depth that can’t be put into words. The kind of love most people writing tributes today are lucky enough to celebrate. What a gift. What a privilege.

To be mothered by those who step in when others stepped out.

To be mothered by choice.

I love you. I thank you. Happy Mothers Day to You.