Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my relationship with my mother — and the fact that she has called me hopeless multiple times throughout my life. Maybe those words came out in moments of exasperation, but the repetition of them — and the deeper message behind them — has stayed with me.

Through her words, her tone, and her behaviour toward others, the message I received growing up was that I wasn’t good enough. That I didn’t do things right. That I wasn’t trying hard enough. Fundamentally, I was broken and unworthy.

It’s difficult to forgive that. Part of me understands that she didn’t know about ADHD — not back in the 90s or 2000s when it wasn’t widely recognised, especially in children like me. I can acknowledge that she probably thought she was doing her best, but it’s hard not to wish she had looked deeper — that she had been curious, or reached out to friends, or seen that my struggles weren’t from lack of effort, but from something neurologically different.

My life was infinitely more difficult than it needed to be, and it took me to the point of psychosis. I sometimes think about how close things could have come to going very wrong — how easily I could have ended up in prison, or in front of a judge, or trapped in a version of life defined by misunderstanding and shame. Equally, with the right people or an earlier diagnosis, things might have turned out very differently.

Now, though, in the present day, I still don’t enjoy speaking to my mum. Our values and worldviews feel incompatible. My opinions aren’t met with curiosity — they’re met with criticism. When I try to have adult conversations, even gentle ones, questioning beliefs she’s criticised in me, I’m met with passive-aggressive behaviour or silence. The same dynamics from childhood linger beneath the surface.

She hasn’t done any work on herself, and I no longer want to participate in conversations that leave me drained or invalidated. I’m happy to disagree, but not to be dismissed. And so, I’m coming to terms with an ultimatum:

Either she chooses to go to therapy and begin some kind of reflective work, or I accept that our relationship will remain purely transactional.

If that’s the case, I can live with it. Because in truth, I won’t have lost anything — I’ll have gained time, peace, and freedom.

And most importantly, I’ll have finally let go of the hope that I will ever get the mother I needed.