Why I Quit Faking a Close Relationship With My Mom

Up until my early 30s, I sent Mother’s Day cards and posted old photos of my mom and me to Instagram. The cards and my captions made it sound like we were buds. They fit in with all the other content from the second Sunday in May, proclaiming blessings to all of momkind.

After all, mother sacrificed everything for us. She put us and our needs ahead of her own. She was endlessly supportive and invested in the people we are becoming. She is our safe space and our solid ground. She’s our day-one.

But I don’t actually relate to any of that. Most Mother’s Days, especially the ones I commemorated on Instagram, I was lying to myself and everyone else. My mom and I never had the kind of bond that made her my go-to when things went very wrong or very right.

Still, we spoke all the time, doing weekly phone catch-ups while I ran errands. She’d tell me about her gym friends and the people she met while donating blood. She’d share detailed recaps of her cats’ agendas. She’d complain about coworkers at her newest job who were mean for no apparent reason. And then, 15 minutes into all that, she’d ask me how work was going. I’d say, “Fine, busy.” There were no follow-up questions. Then it was over, and I could cross her off my to-do list.

If this sounds like I was satisfied with our surface-level relationship, I wasn’t. In the past, I worked to deepen our dynamic. In high school, for example, I’d ask to do her hair and makeup. She’d roll her eyes before agreeing to let me at it. At the time, I would have told you that I took initiative because she didn’t know how to use a flat iron or eye shadow. I wanted her to look cute when we went out with my friends and their moms. Today, I can see that I was trying to forge a bond that wasn’t there. She tolerated it.

In college, I kept up my campaign by being more open. I told her about this new guy I was seeing. I shared how I spent a PG-13 night in his dorm room. She cut me off, “You don’t have to tell me this.” I tried to go on, and she repeated the sentiment, so I took the hint.

After moving 1,000 miles away after college, there were fewer opportunities for us to get close, and even so, she still refused to take my bait. When my mom visited, she’d spend a lot of our time together talking to strangers. We’d go out with my friends, and she’d find other interesting people to chat with. We’d sit on a bench outside of a coffee shop, and she’d tell a stranger my life story. Then we’d walk home in silence.

When I compared our dynamic with my friends and their moms, I felt defective. But I’d brush it off and make excuses for her: She’s just an eccentric lady. She’s highly social (at least with other people). She’s not really the nurturing type. All of that might be true, but none of it made me feel better in the end.

I pushed those feelings down where I didn’t have to deal with them. Unfortunately, when I’d see doting mothers in movies like “Mamma Mia!” or attend a friend’s baby shower, the emotions bubbled back up. I didn’t know it then, but I was grieving the mom I’ll never have.

It wasn’t until I started therapy in my late 20s that I fully grasped how my relationship with my mom affected me. Once an objective mental health professional confirmed that our interactions were, in fact, messed up, I couldn’t unsee it.

Finally, after a decade of conflict avoidance, I told my mom I felt like she didn’t care about me. “Why don’t you want to spend time with me?” I asked. “Why don’t you act interested in me?” When I broke down over the phone, she said she was sorry I was hurt and changed the subject.

After that, our surface-level phone calls were harder to push through. Finally, after years of sucking it up, calling her a few times a month and, of course, every Mother’s Day, I completely pulled back from our relationship in June 2023.

The first Mother’s Day was the hardest, but I planned for it. I felt my feelings, crying in the shower. I journaled. I avoided social media. I read a book. I was depressed, but things were under control.

Then my dad texted, asking me to message my mom because “She’s hurting.” That ate at me. Sure, I could send a text. From the outside, it seems like the outcome would outweigh the effort.

But grief doesn’t make logical sense. My dad didn’t know that this day was/is hard for me too. He didn’t know that sending her a text would mean betraying emotions and experiences I had just begun to validate. I still doubted myself. Was I being stubborn or dramatic? I debated sending her a text, and spiraled for hours.

Ultimately, I chose myself. I told my dad that Mother’s Day was tough for me too. I didn’t want my mom to think our relationship was fine. It wasn’t. It likely will never be. He was more understanding than I anticipated, and I felt reassured. The following year, I turned my phone off. This year, I may do the same.

While reporting for my book, “Motherf*cked, How To Keep Your Mother’s Toxic Drama From Ruining Your Life,” I learned that so many more people dread Mother’s Day than I imagined. I also learned that it’s OK to put yourself first, honoring your true feelings instead of faking it to appease your mom or the rest of your family. In fact, you might feel better when you do.

If you can relate, please know you’re not defective for having a dysfunctional relationship with your mom. Grieving who she’ll never be, accepting who she is, and making informed decisions based on that reality is how I started feeling better, and you can too.

Maybe this is the year you decide to stop pretending that you and your mom are close on Mother’s Day. Or maybe you decide to have an honest conversation with your mom about this relationship’s shortcomings.

Though I see my mom at holidays and family gatherings, I’m no longer faking this relationship every May. When I see her, I always hug her and tell her I love her, and that’s all I can manage for the foreseeable future.