The World Celebrates While You Grieve: Why "Mother’s Day" Hits Different When Your Mother Was Your First Hater

Jerusalem Brown, LPC, NCC
May 11
11 min read

Updated: May 12

An emotionally, duplicitous image of a Black mother wearing a classic nursing uniform sitting next to her emotionally neglected and abused daughter wearing a private school uniform in a church setting where her mother is nice to everyone in public, but whom is mean behind closed doors.

Not every daughter is posting a glowing tribute today. Some of us are holding space for the mother wound that’s still healing. If your mother was your first critic, your first hater, or your first emotional abuser—this post is for you.

Author’s Note:

I’m not sharing this because I’m bitter.

I’m sharing this because I’m finally free. And you deserve that same freedom, too.

For too long, I carried shame around my relationship with my mother, silencing myself to keep up appearances. But silence isn’t peace—it’s dysfunction. And I’m done with that.

My mother has had years—and plenty of willing ears—to tell her version of our story. This is mine—unfiltered, unapologetic, and free.

This isn’t a family betrayal. It’s a refusal to betray myself any longer.

I will no longer shrink to make dysfunction more palatable. This is what healing out loud looks like. And today, I choose to be heard for a change.

The First Person Who Wounded Me Was Supposed to Be My Safe Place

Before the world could wound me, my first betrayal came from my mother. That wound shaped how I carried myself for years—unseen, overlooked, and convinced that love had to hurt to be real. I spent decades trying to fix it, trying to make her proud enough, comfortable enough, or something enough… to finally love me right.

But here’s what I know now:

You can’t heal someone else’s brokenness by sacrificing your wholeness. Especially when they don’t see you as a person—only as a role to control.

Weaponized Victimhood: When Mom Flips the Script

My mother couldn’t handle accountability.

If I expressed pain? I was attacking her.

If I set a boundary? I was being mean.

If I pulled away? I was acting like I hated her.

Meanwhile, she performed kindness in public but unleashed venom behind closed doors.And when I dared to respond? She’d cry to others about my “behavior” without ever admitting what pushed me there in the first place.

Gaslighting isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s wrapped in tears and fake confusion: “I just don’t know why she treats me like this.”

Why would a mother do this? It often stems from their own unhealed trauma, mental illness, narcissistic traits, or a desperate need for control. When their child reflects the truth of their instability, it becomes intolerable. And when my growth threatened her control, she flipped the script and made me the villain.

Abuse by Proxy: How She Recruited Others to Hurt Me, Too

One of the hardest truths I had to face was realizing my mother didn’t just hurt me directly—she recruited others to help her do it. This is called abuse by proxy—when someone uses triangulation (pitting people against each other), coercion, and smear campaigns to poison other people’s perception of you so they can:

Control the narrative
Isolate you emotionally
Make you look like the villain while they play the victim
Maintain control
Avoid accountability

She poisoned my image in the family to make sure I stayed the “problem child” in everyone’s mind. And because no one wanted to question Mama, they took her word without ever coming to check on me directly. She didn’t accidentally cause distance between me and other family members; she engineered it—subtly, quietly, and repeatedly.

Why? Because if I had support—if I had witnesses to my kindness, growth, and spirit—I would be harder to control. And it worked, for a long time. Family members potentially saw the distorted version she whispered about me, as she rarely shared or invited honest observations about my actual personhood, pursuits, or accomplishments. So, few—very few—ever stopped to question her or invite dialogue with me.

This pattern of behavior runs deep in many families because confronting “Mama” feels like blasphemy to most folks. So they choose comfort over truth, image over intimacy, and silence over accountability. It pisses me off that family members didn’t question the stories she told. They didn’t think to check on me. They didn’t ask me what I experienced because believing my mother was easier than confronting the fact that she was the one causing harm.

Sidebar: I learned that gossipers aren’t actually telling you about others—they’re telling you about themselves.

They:

Project their shame, envy, and dysfunction
Deflect attention from their own behaviors
Build false alliances to avoid accountability

My mother talked about me because my boldness and confrontation made her emotional stagnation visible and, perhaps, unbearable. My sensitivity made her callousness easy to see. My voice and my willingness to use it made her manipulative behaviors more visible.

So, she talked sh*t about me to others to weaken my voice and my truth. It was never about me being “bad.” It was about me being too much of a mirror.

Why People Believe the Gossip Without Questioning It

They want to avoid conflict with the gossiper who also holds the power to gossip about them.
They’re already biased against you.
Simple narratives (“good vs bad”) over nuance feel safer than the messy truth.
They’ve been conditioned to never question an authority figure (i.e., a mother).
Some people enjoy having someone to look down on because it makes them feel safer, superior, or “better" by comparison.

The Family That Chose Silence Over Action

Most kids hold no power in an abusive dynamic because their silence is trained and sanctioned. I carried secrets no one knew about because I was trained to be quiet--even about my pain. So, no one ever came. No one asked if I was okay. Because, again, in most families, especially Black families, questioning a mother feels like betrayal. So they let me carry the weight alone. They let me be the scapegoat. They let me be the emotional landfill for generations of pain they didn’t want to name. And that’s how the silence gets passed down like an heirloom.

I realized long ago that I was on my own.

What Happens to the Child Who Carries the Secrets?

You overachieve or disappear. You replay every conversation trying to prove you’re not the villain. You become hyperaware of every mood shift, every slight, every unspoken rule. And you never get the apology you deserve—you just inherit the emotional labor they refuse to hold.

Ultimately, I became my own advocate before I even had the words for what was happening. And if I hadn’t? I’d still be waiting for someone to care.

I witnessed it all as a perceptive child who was to be seen and not heard. My mother's undiagnosed mental illness impacted all the other things she was experiencing, because let's be real, motherhood is not an easy feat when you are the only one responsible for the primary caretaking every day. She'd tell me, "They (sorted family members) used to call me fitified," referring to when she was growing up. I never understood what she meant until I started speaking up for myself more. The funny thing is that I would receive the same ridicule from her!

At the time, I didn't understand that my mother wasn’t just reacting to me. She was reacting to the part of me that reminded her of herself—the part she learned to hate in herself a long time ago. Perhaps that is why she treated me with such disdain--because I mirrored her younger self? Holy Sh*t! I just realized that as I typed it.

But here’s the difference: I sought healing, truth, and my own definition, rather than merely accepting others' perceptions and projections as defining factors about who I was—something she was never given the space to do.

And even though I can have compassion for her story, I refuse to keep sacrificing myself for it. Her wounds don’t excuse her weapons. I can have compassion and set boundaries. I can understand her and refuse to be her emotional punching bag. She didn't, and perhaps couldn't, do that for herself then, but I get to do it now (for both of us).

When Mental Illness Explains But Doesn’t Excuse

Speaking of silence, I assume my maternal family knew my mother suffered from a mental illness, but no one dared talk about it. I always perceived something was wrong or "off," I just didn't know what, exactly. I observed that she was always performing--performing wellness, performing that everything was okay, performing "good mother and good wife" while also experiencing inner tumult--not only due to her mental illness, but other dynamics around our family dysfunction, as well.

Her untreated mental illness may explain her struggles, but it doesn’t excuse:

The manipulation
The triangulation
The emotional abuse

There’s a difference between having wounds and using those wounds as weapons. My mom made a choice repeatedly. Those choices cost me pieces of self-worth that I am still reclaiming today.

The Emotional Theft of Weaponized Tenderness

And another thing! Even though my mother potentially mimicked how people treated her in her youth (by mocking, deflecting, and dismissing my pain), she still managed to demand my compassion. She mocked my tears but demanded my compassion. She dismissed my feelings but expected my loyalty. She neglected me emotionally, but expected me to be there when she needed care.

Weaponized tenderness isn’t love. It’s emotional exploitation. And I’m done accepting it.

I refuse to continue supporting people who exploit my kindness for their advantage, yet avoid responsibility and gaslight me when I seek empathy and understanding from them.

The Moment I Knew I Was Done

One day, I asked my mother:

“So, you mean to tell me…in the 45 years I've been alive, you’ve never done anything wrong? It was always me?”

The silence that followed told me everything I needed to know. It's wild how some people would rather lose you than face themselves. I replayed, assessed, and then released all of the memories of deflection, disrespect, ridicule, and dismissiveness that were burned into my brain. I realized that she expects me to be silent about her emotional abuse versus using my voice to honor, name, and voice how her actions affected me. I was expected to STFU and give her passes over and over and over and over and over again. Absolutely NOT!

Breaking the Cycle: I Don’t Have to Play This Role Anymore

Breaking free from a f*cked up family system I didn’t create, but was born into, is my responsibility. I was born into this system, but I’m not required to keep it going.

Not on Mother’s Day. Not on any day.

I am the cycle breaker. The truth-teller. The liberator.

I don’t owe anyone a performance. I don’t owe anyone silence.

I owe myself the freedom to live, heal, and tell the truth—unapologetically.

The Loneliness of Having to Mother Yourself

I used to wonder why I carried this low-grade undercurrent of sadness all the time, like a fog that followed me everywhere. Even though I smiled through it and tried to soothe other folks with my attention and guidance (because that's what I needed), I used to think something was seriously wrong with me. Now I know that it wasn’t just sadness, it was a deeply felt grief around the pain I was holding, and the fact that I never had the motherly support I was always trying to give.

What I wanted was a mother who could love me without conditions and abuse, a mother who could (and wanted to) protect me instead of projecting onto me. I desired a mother who could check on me, not with performative "duty," but a mother who was actually attuned and interested in who I am as a person (not merely as a reflection of her). I wanted more than superficial check-ins that lasted a couple of minutes and didn't really mean anything.

Instead, I grew up with a mother who seemed to value public perception over real connection. My confusion around my mother's disinterest has waned. I no longer feel invisible; I do not feel like I don't matter. I know I was labeled as the “problem child,” the “too sensitive one,” and the “disrespectful daughter” because I dared to challenge and name what I was experiencing and perceiving, not because something was wrong with me, but because my observations were on point.

POEM: I Wish I Had a Mom (who could see me, hold me, love me)

I wish I had a mom

who could look me in the eyes

and not flinch

at the fire she sees there.

A mom who didn’t make me feel

like my boldness was blasphemy,

like my brilliance was betrayal,

like my very being was too big

for her small, breakable boxes.

I wish I had a mom

who didn’t try to stuff me

into molds made from her fear,

who didn’t use shame

as a leash

because she didn’t know how to love

what she couldn't control.

I wish I had a mom

who didn’t triangulate her love

like a war plan,

who didn’t call on others

to dim my light

because hers wasn’t allowed to shine.

I wish I had a momwho didn’t whisper about me

to people too cowardly to ask me the truth.

Who didn’t turn my name into a rumor

and my worth into a threat.

I wish I had a mom

who could marvel at my voice

instead of mistaking it

for rebellion.

Who could see my confidence

not as a weapon

but as the armor I had to forge

because she wouldn’t protect me.

I wish I had a mom

who held me

without needing me

to shrink.

Who loved me

without asking me

to betray myself

for her comfort.

I wish I had a mom

who wasn’t terrified

of the very things

she passed down to me.

A mom who could say,

“You’re strong in ways I wasn’t allowed to be—

and I’m proud.”

But instead,

I learned to mother myself.

To cradle my own power

like it was sacred.

To unlearn silence

and speak anyway.

And though she never came to see me,

I see myself now.

And that?

That is the beginning

of home.

Signs You May Be Silently Grieving on Mother’s Day

For those of us who have had to battle emotional neglect and backbiting around our experiences with our mothers,' Mother's Day may feel bittersweet. There is nothing wrong with you. Yes, you love your mother, but you also don't have a Hallmark card relationship with your mother as others seem to have. Considering this, you may be experiencing difficult feelings around this day. If so, I'm here to remind you that you are simply experiencing grief around your uncommon experiences, which may be hard for the general population to understand.

Signs of Mother's Day Grief for Emotionally Neglected Sons & Daughters (and/or people with difficult relationships with their mothers):

You feel guilty for not posting a tribute, but you also can’t lie and express feelings you don't actually feel
You experience low-grade sadness or anger with no “obvious” reason
You feel like you have to call or check in, even when you don’t want to
You get emotionally exhausted leading up to Mother’s Day or any day you have to engage with her because you must ignore your true feelings.
You question whether you’re heartless for telling the truth about your experiences with her.

FAQ

Q: What are the signs of an emotionally abusive mother?

A: Signs include constant criticism, gaslighting, triangulation, controlling behavior, silent treatment, and a tendency to play the victim.

Q: Why does an emotionally abusive mother blame her child for everything?

A: This behavior often stems from her own unhealed trauma or mental illness. Blaming the child helps her avoid taking accountability for her actions. It also protects her fragile ego.

Q: Is it okay to go no-contact with your mother if she's emotionally abusive?

A: Yes. Prioritizing your mental and emotional well-being is not betrayal—it’s self-protection. Healing often requires space from the source of harm.

Q: What is triangulation in family dynamics?

A: Triangulation is when a parent manipulates two or more people against each other to maintain control and avoid accountability. It creates confusion and distrust.

Crowning Thoughts

You were never too sensitive. You were never too difficult. You were never the villain.

You were the mirror they tried to shatter so they wouldn’t have to see themselves.

You are not the betrayer of the family story. You are the breaker of the family curse.

If today feels heavy, know this:

You are not alone.
You don’t have to "fake the funk."
You don’t have to lie or placate to fit in.
You don’t have to carry the shame of your story.

You get to grieve, name, and heal in real time. And you get to mother yourself with the tenderness you always wanted, needed, and deserved.

Crown Commandment

I will not betray my truth to protect a title. I honor the mother I needed by becoming that safe place for myself. Today, I reclaim my voice, my story, and my right to grieve what never was—unapologetically.