The Untold Story of My Mother and I

In most conversations revolving around family, the topic that usually comes up is mothers. It's hard to describe the feeling I get in the pit of my stomach whenever I'm asked about mine. I tend to leave most details out, but I always respond the same way: "We don't have a close relationship." Even in the past, when I used to go to therapy, I seldom spoke about my mother, because it always felt irrelevant to whatever we were discussing. But when I think about the trajectory of my life, there's so much that links back to her. So instead of avoiding it altogether, I'll face it head-on, here with you.

Early Childhood

My mother never wanted a daughter; my father did. From my earliest memories, she was neither kind nor gentle with me. I was often abandoned by her, and when we were together, she would publicly shame me. I never understood why she treated my brothers so lovingly but was so cruel toward me. She often spoke highly of them simply because they were boys, and in her outdated thinking, boys were always favored over girls. I think that's why I always wanted to be one of the "boys"—hoping that I, too, could be treated the same.

Like most children, I watched a lot of television, but mostly due to a lack of supervision. I remember watching many family shows and feeling confused, wondering why my family couldn’t be like those I saw on TV. Whenever I saw mothers and daughters interacting lovingly, I felt such a deep sadness. I wished my mother would spend time with me, talk to me, hug me. Despite how many times she left me at school (she often forgot to pick me up), left me home alone, or scolded me, I still held onto the hope that one day, she would love me, or at least care.

Growing Pains

I started falling behind in school. I would often cut class to hang out with my friends and find places to hide during school hours. It wasn't just the thrill of doing something wrong or fun—it was because I didn’t know how to process my emotions, and I had no one I could talk to about my home life. Eventually, I was caught, and my family found out how many days I had missed. I was threatened with being home by a certain time after school, with each family member taking turns to watch me and make sure I didn’t leave the apartment. My home was becoming a prison, and for a while, everything was chaotic and dysfunctional. I needed to escape it all.

Day by day, I would study everyone’s schedules, planning my opportunities to sneak out and be with my friends. The lack of freedom only made my desire to escape stronger. During my early teenage years, my mother became my enemy, stopping at nothing to tell everyone—relatives, neighbors, even her friends—how much of a disgrace I was to the family. She would often criticize me, comparing me to other relatives’ children or people she knew, saying they were “good and well-behaved” while I was reckless and didn’t act "properly" for a girl.

I had really low self-esteem, and my confidence was non-existent. While I was used to her verbally abusing me since I was very young, it never hurt any less. For years, I was told I was stupid, dumb, lazy, useless, and the list goes on. Though this always angered me or made me feel bad about myself, I began to question whether it was true—and if it was the reason why she didn’t like me at all. I honestly never heard her say anything nice to me, or about me to anyone else. She absolutely hated me and despised me for reasons that remain unknown to me to this day.

Trying Again as an Adult

I was only 20 when my grandfather passed away in March 2005, just a few months before I would turn 21. In May of that year, for Mother’s Day, I decided to make an effort to reconcile with my mom and start over. I placed a bouquet of flowers in a vase on the kitchen table so she would see it when she came home. I waited, unsure of how she would react, imagining her coming in, admiring the flowers, and smiling at me. But when she came home, there was no sound. I stepped out of the room and found the flowers shoved into the corner by the front door, buried beneath her clutter.

She came out of her room and asked me if I was the one who bought them. I said yes, that it was for Mother’s Day. She replied, "It’s a waste of money. Next time, just give me the money instead." (Mind you, she had always complained about never receiving gifts from anyone.) Needless to say, I was upset and left. Frustrated, with tears in my eyes, I told myself, "I tried," and felt parts of me shattering, just like they always had since I was a child.

Present Day

I cannot forgive this woman, who biologically is my mother but has never been a mom to me. I’m still working through years of mental, emotional, and verbal abuse, consoling the younger versions of myself. I’ve spent most of my life feeling unworthy of love, believing that anything "good" was only temporary and not meant for me. For the past few years, I’ve been working on loving myself, as foreign as it feels, considering I was never taught what love was meant to be in a healthy way. I continue to remind myself that I am loved and deserving of love. I never knew the true power of love until I started to love myself.

Stay tuned, as my next story will be about my father. Your continued support by being here and reading my stories makes me feel heard. You don’t understand the impact that has on me. Thank you so much!

-Mimi