I Don’t Feel Powerless Anymore

For most of my life, I’ve felt emotionally powerless around my mother.

Not just small, but unstable — like the ground beneath me could shift at any moment. I never knew how she’d respond. I’d try to express pain or set a boundary, and somehow I’d end up feeling like the villain. It was like being emotionally cross-examined, with no exit, no witness, and no place to land.

Recently, I sent her a message. A clear one.
I didn’t shout. I didn’t beg. I didn’t accuse.
I simply told the truth: that I can’t keep her in my life in the same way, and that real change — not performance — would be needed if any relationship were to continue.

Twelve hours later, she replied.
She said she’s reflected.
She said she’s open to therapy — but only if we do it together.
She said she’s always loved me and wants to have a continuing relationship with me and my son.

And I didn’t feel joy.
I didn’t feel relief.
I felt my body light up — my nervous system going into fight-or-flight before I even finished the first line.

Because I know this pattern.
This wasn’t true accountability.
This was image management.
This was a way to offer something — but on her terms, and without facing herself.

For the first time in my life, though, I didn’t spiral.
I didn’t collapse.
I didn’t start writing a long reply trying to explain why her message still didn’t feel right.

Instead, I noticed the game.
And I stayed still.

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What I’ve realised is that she’s trying to regain a little control — which makes sense. She’s never been in this position before. I’ve always come back. I’ve always softened. I’ve always taken the blame.

But not now.
Now, I don’t need her to admit everything.
I don’t even need her to change.

I just need to stay in my truth.

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And yes — part of me feels strange even considering keeping some form of relationship open. Because there’s a financial inheritance there, and I don’t want to feel like I’m staying in contact just for that. But the truth is more complex than that.

The truth is:

• I don’t need her anymore.
• I don’t hate her either.
• I’m simply not abandoning myself to stay connected.
• And if one day, there’s something left financially, I won’t feel like I sold my soul. I’ll know I protected my peace and navigated this with clarity.

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I’ve accepted that she’ll never be the mother I needed.
That’s not bitterness — it’s grief, metabolised.
What I hope for now isn’t repair. It’s neutrality.
A version of low-contact that protects me, protects my son, and holds firm to the boundaries I’ve earned.

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Here Are My Quiet Conditions:

• I won’t attend therapy with her unless it’s to support her first step into her own journey — not to be fixed together.
• I won’t abandon what I’ve seen, just because her tone is softer.
• I won’t get pulled into manipulation wrapped in affection.
• I won’t offer access to Victor unless I feel genuinely safe and respected as his parent.
• I won’t justify, explain, or collapse to maintain appearances.

And most importantly:

• I won’t shrink again.
  Not for her. Not for anyone.

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It feels strange — and a little sad — to have this power now.
Not because I want to hurt her.
But because I’m no longer willing to be hurt to keep the peace.

I don’t need to fight.
I don’t need to fix.
I don’t even need to respond yet.

I just need to stay in my seat.

And I will.

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