Self Assurance
Sometimes our most authentic choices are the ones that are the quietest.
Just over a month ago I decided to go limited-contact with my mother. I don't need to justify my reasons, but I do need to share some of the story. More for myself than your understanding.
I made the decision during an emotionally tense conversation. My mom had admitted that I scared her, that I was unpredictable. I sat with that for a moment and admitted to her that I regretted the conversation. Internally, I had made my choice to limit contact.
For a long time, I had known that day would come. The day I would finally be in a place where choosing to limit contact was viable. Not because I had any more support, but because the truth of the situation and my inner assurance that I would be okay would align and this would be the natural outcome.
I was in my late teens when the idea of separating myself from my mom came to be. I'm now in my mid 20s. So almost a decade of holding this once abstract understanding.
I spent the first half of that decade trying to figure out what was wrong with me. Why did I want this? Why am I the only child of 5 to feel like this towards my mom? There must have been something wrong with me. I must have not been trying hard enough. I must have fundamentally messed up.
There never was anything wrong with me. I tried as hard as I could. I didn't mess up.
So I was confused, but had then learned a bit about inner healing, some trauma work, triggers, habits, thought patterns. I decided to put the initial problem aside and would work on myself for myself. Present me looks back at that younger self and sees all the hard work I put into getting myself where I am today.
I'm going to take a little credit here for all the work I did. All the shame I had to sit with, all the emotional regulation I taught myself, all the time I spent with the versions of myself that I feared. Even now I'm sitting with a voice that wants to call this vengeance; this sharing of my history, my experience, my pain. "Vengeance" sits with me here because I was taught to hide. To hide the truth, to hide my suffering, to hide myself. So the voice calls itself vengeance for being wronged and taking action to make it right.
I'm not doing this to hurt or harm, I'm doing this in service of myself, the younger versions that needed someone to show them they weren't wrong, they weren't broken, they never needed to be fixed.
I was just a child. A child that held the families secrets and was never allowed to say anything.
My choice to do limited contact with my mom is something I had slowly been moving towards for almost a decade of my life.
For most of that decade, I could never fully look at this outcome. I could never fully accept that this was going to happen. I spent the last few years trying to fix something that wasn't allowed to be spoken about. How can you fix something if you can't see it in its entirety? How do you solve a problem that refuses to be named?
You can't. But you can try. I did. I tried until I couldn't. I tried until the truth was said plainly.
I had wished for a different outcome, but years of the same meant that could only remain a wish for another reality, where circumstances were different.
Growing up, my mom never outright said she's ashamed of me, nor did she say I scared her. But it was always something I felt, something known and unnamed.
My mom never acknowledged the work I did for her comfort. That's when I started centring the work for my approval and satisfaction. It was quiet, mostly left out of conversations.
I can't say I'm not a little, I don't know, vindictive? Or purely wholesome in this journey. I am fiercely proud of the work I've done, and where I've ended up. I am also fiercely protective of it. I didn't share most of my journey with my mom because I never wanted her to claim any part of it. The part she owns is the cause, the reason I did the work in the first place.
That is something I keep mostly to myself. Until now I guess.
I never sent my mom a message or any indication of limiting contact. Just a quiet "I'll need time to process," after that final conversation.
It's not easy. I don't think it's ever going to be easy. There are days I want to call her or send her a reel. Those moments are a reminder of what's no longer there. What might never be there again.
But I am doing better in these past couple of months. I still speak a lot about my mom in therapy, but there's a lot for me to untangle.
I feel more free to share my writing now. That's the biggest thing, I think. With that once abstract understanding of this limited-contact, I knew I couldn't have both, that I would always remain in conflict with myself.
I chose myself and I will always choose myself. That's the quiet, authentic choice I made. What's yours?