I really love my mum. She’s funny, she makes me laugh, she can be warm and kind. And I want to love her without guilt or fear.

When I was little, I didn’t understand it. Sometimes she would praise me, sometimes she would ignore me, sometimes she would criticize me in ways that felt like I was wrong for existing. And the thing is, she always wrapped it in love. “I just want what’s best for you,” she would say. And I believed her, because I wanted to believe her. I wanted her love so badly.

Now I see it more clearly. The manipulation, the subtle control, the way she makes me doubt myself. The way she twists things so that I apologize even when I didn’t do anything wrong. The way I tiptoe around her moods, always careful not to trigger anger or disappointment. And the confusion — I can’t hate her because she’s my mum. I can’t leave her in my heart because she’s everything I’ve known love to be. But I can’t stop feeling… tired, hollow, sometimes desperate to just escape for a minute and breathe without explanation.

And it’s not always loud or dramatic. Often it’s quiet, insidious. Little digs that chip away at confidence. Comparing me to others in subtle ways. Expecting me to perform, to bend, to absorb her moods without question. And I try to be strong, I try to remember she’s human, I try to forgive her mistakes… but the weight keeps building. And I love her anyway.

I feel guilty for feeling despair. I feel guilty for thinking maybe she can’t give the love I need. I feel guilty for wishing things could be different, for imagining a life where her approval isn’t everything. And I don’t know if I’ll ever untangle the love from the hurt. I just know it’s always there, a knot in my chest, a longing for connection and a fear of being consumed at the same time.

Even now, writing this, I feel it: the love, the pain, the hopeless hope that she could see me and hold me without breaking me. And I don’t know if that’s selfish or just the way it is to love someone who can hurt you more than anyone else in this world.

Lisa, 34, Cotswolds, England

R2J reply:

Thank you Lisa.

Wow. Reading this hits hard. And I mean that because it’s real. Loving someone who keeps hurting you, who confuses care with control, it’s exhausting and alienating all at once. It makes you question yourself constantly — “Am I too sensitive? Am I overreacting? Do I deserve this?” “Am I wrong?”— and the answers never feel right. Cos she’s your mum right? She’s gotta be right, right?.

It’s the same patterns that you notice, that you feel deeply. And that’s exhausting. It’s like walking through mud; you move, you make progress, but every step requires more energy than it should.

It’s also terrifying how much hope and love can get tangled up with rejection. You catch yourself remembering the good moments, the jokes, the warmth, the rare glimpses of softness — and you cling to those, because letting go feels like erasing her from your life, which feels impossible. And that tug-of-war is brutal because it never stops. Even when you’re safe, even when you’re apart, even when you convince yourself you “know better,” it sneaks back in.

And that’s the context for why the practical stuff matters — not because it fixes everything, but because it keeps you afloat in a journey that never quite lets up.

A few things that might help, even if just a little:

• Separate your love from their behavior. You can love your mum and still recognise patterns that hurt you. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, even if it feels like they should be.
• Notice the little hits to your energy. Those tiny criticisms, subtle digs, manipulations — they add up. Journaling or just saying them out loud to someone safe can prevent them from living inside you unchecked.
• Micro-boundaries matter. Not dramatic confrontations, just small things: leaving the room, taking a walk, keeping some thoughts private. It gives your brain space to breathe without feeling like you’re abandoning her.
• Find mirrors outside your family. Friends, mentors, online communities — anyone who sees you clearly and doesn’t twist your words. That helps you remember what “normal care” feels like.
• Remind yourself: despair is not a reflection of your love. It’s a reflection of trying to exist in a space where love comes with strings you didn’t ask for. It’s complicated, painful, human. And it doesn’t mean you’re weak.

You’re allowed to be loved. You really are.

With love,

R2J