This is not an easy story to tell. For years I kept it inside, trying to excuse it, trying to make sense of it, trying to defend her even when it hurt me. But silence only keeps the wounds alive. Writing this is my way of breaking free from that silence.

This is my story of growing up with a narcissist mother.

I Grew Up With a Narcissist Mother

For years, I’ve lived with a question in the back of my mind: what’s wrong here? Why did everything always feel so upside down? Why did I always feel guilty, even when I hadn’t done anything wrong?

I spent so long defending her. To myself, to others. I told myself she had a hard life. That she was stressed. That I should be more understanding, more patient, more forgiving. I wanted to believe that if I just tried harder, maybe she would finally see me. Finally love me in the way a mother is supposed to love her child.

The last message I ever received from her said:

“Don’t call me mother anymore.”

And then she blocked me. Blocked my sister too. As if we were disposable. As if decades of being her children could be erased with a single click.

Do I feel sad? Not really. Mostly I feel numb. Strangely, a little relieved. It’s hard to admit, but deep down, I don’t care anymore, not in the way a child usually aches for their mother. That part of me is gone.

I refused to be manipulated any longer. I refused to bend myself into knots just to please her.

Part 1: Childhood

Growing up with a narcissistic mother means you live in a constant state of confusion. On the outside, everything might look fine. People might even think she’s charming, strong, admirable. But at home, the reality is different.

I have four siblings, and I’m the fourth one. We grew up with both my mom and dad, but our family life wasn’t what most people would call “normal.” Dad worked on another island and usually only came home on weekends. Mom was a stay-at-home mother until she chose to study nursing and later moved to another country, saying it was for us, to give us a better life.

When she moved away, we lived with my dad. And honestly, I think that was one of the happiest parts of my childhood. Life was calmer with him. More stable.

The truth is, I don’t really remember much of my childhood with my mom or at least, not the good parts. What I do remember are the tough ones.

I remember one day when I lost my ID from a religious group I was part of. She scolded me so harshly and forced me to go outside and dig through the trash. The ID had been ripped apart, and I had to search piece by piece until I found every fragment. I must have been around seven or eight.

I remember pretending to nap after school, just so I could delay facing her. She would already be waiting at home for me to do my homework, and if I didn’t get a perfect score, the yelling would begin.

I remember visiting her family and my grandmother on another island. I longed for motherly comfort there, for her to hold me, notice me, be with me. But she was always gone, playing mahjong. I was left in the care of my older sister or an aunt.

Those are the memories that surface. Not warmth. Not safety. Just tension, fear, and the feeling that nothing was ever good enough. The mood in the house was always dictated by hers. If she was in a bad mood, everyone felt it. If she was angry, the whole house shrank.

Looking back, it makes sense why I grew into someone who constantly seeks to please others, someone who puts other people’s needs ahead of my own. It’s a survival mechanism I learned early on, if she was pleased, I was safe.

But as a child, that safety never lasted.

Part 2: Teenage Years

When my mom moved abroad, we stayed behind and lived with my dad. And honestly, those were some of the best years of my childhood. Life with him felt lighter, freer. We could just be kids, we laughed more, played more, did whatever we wanted without fear of constant criticism. I made a lot of happy memories during that time.

But even when she was far away, my mom still made her presence felt. She would often call us on video, and while it started as a way to stay connected, it soon became another way for her to control us. If I didn’t answer because I was tired, or just didn’t feel like talking, she would get angry:

“You don’t love me anymore. Don’t call me then.”

So we answered, not because we wanted to, but because we didn’t want to make her mad. Even from a distance, we were careful not to upset her.

Eventually, we moved abroad to be with her. At first, it was exciting. A new country, new experiences, a fresh start. But soon, I remembered what it was like to live with her again.

She would buy us clothes, things we hadn’t asked for, always in her taste. And if we said we didn’t like them, she would scold us, get angry, make us feel ungrateful. In the end, we wore them just to avoid conflict. Maybe if she had taken us shopping with her, let us choose for ourselves, things would have been different. But it was always about what she wanted.

One memory from that time still stings deeply. I was about twelve, struggling at school because of the language barrier. I couldn’t learn a new language in just a couple of months, but she didn’t see it that way. I remember her crying to my dad, saying she thought I was an idiot. I carried that guilt for years, believing I had disappointed her, that I wasn’t good enough. But now, looking back, I realize how unfair that was. I was a child, in a new country, trying my best. Why should I have carried her disappointment as my burden?

Money was another constant source of tension. Any time we asked for a little to go into the city, she would lash out with passive-aggressive comments, acting as if we were a burden. The government support we received went directly to her, and somehow it never felt like enough.

She could be nice, but only when we did exactly what she wanted. Other times, she would explode in anger or withdraw into silence, giving us the cold shoulder for days. The atmosphere at home shifted constantly, depending on her moods.

And then there were her shopping habits. The endless spending, the loans with sky-high interest rates. She even put debts under my father’s name. Things got so bad that my younger sister, who was in college at the time, had to use her student support money to help keep them afloat. It was overwhelming, messy, and unfair.

Looking back, there are too many moments to count. Too many times when her choices left scars on all of us.

Part 3: Adulthood and the Breaking Point

Adulthood came, and with it a kind of freedom I had never known. I moved to another country to study medicine and spent around eight years there. For the first time, I was free from my mom and, sadly, from my dad too.

Those years were not easy, but they were mine. On vacations, when I went home, the old patterns always returned. Arguments would erupt, followed by weeks of silence, until I caved and apologized first. Always me, never her. It was the only way to break the ice, to restore some kind of uneasy peace.

There were moments I almost quit med school. I was overwhelmed, tired, ready to give up. One time, my mom even flew to where I was. She cried in front of me when I said I couldn’t do it anymore. Not because she truly cared about my struggles, but because me quitting wasn’t part of her story. Her image of me succeeding mattered more than how I actually felt.

Still, I pushed on. I graduated. I moved back to the country. Eventually, I had a child of my own, and my focus shifted to building a life and family outside of her shadow.

But the drama followed me, as it always did. My father began complaining that my mom was using his money without permission. I confronted her about it through text asking her, pleading with her, not to do this again, especially after what had happened last time with the unpaid loan that nearly destroyed us.

I expected maybe an explanation, maybe even remorse. Instead, she deflected. The topic suddenly shifted. She reminded me of all the sacrifices she had made:

“I moved to another country for you. I did this and that for you. And this is how you repay me? Did I ever complain?”

When she cried, my dad called me, urging me to phone her and make things right. The same cycle again her actions erased, the spotlight turned to her pain, and me expected to fix it.

But something in me had changed. I had my own family now. My own child. My own life. I didn’t have the energy to keep playing the same endless game.

So I didn’t reply.

And that was it. That was the breaking point. She ended things with a message telling me not to call her “mother” anymore. Then she blocked me, and my sister too.

Part 4: The Present

And so, here I am. Done.

Do I feel sad? A little. Do I feel guilty? Not anymore. Mostly, I feel tired. Tired of trying to repair something that was never whole to begin with.

I’ve realized that the relationship I wanted with her never existed. The love I longed for was never truly there. What’s left is silence and maybe, finally, peace. Forgive her? I don’t think I can.

Now my energy goes to the family I’ve built. To my child, who will never have to wonder whether they are enough. Who will never be forced to earn love or walk on eggshells. Who will never be told not to call me mother.

This is where the story ends with her. But maybe, for me, this is also where healing begins.

Epilogue

Sharing this doesn’t mean I hate her. It means I love myself enough to stop the cycle. It means I’ve chosen peace over chaos, truth over denial.

I’m not writing this for pity. I’m writing this for clarity, for myself, and maybe for others who have lived something similar and wonder if they’re alone.

If you’re reading this and it echoes your story: you’re not alone. You’re not wrong. And you don’t need to carry the weight of someone else’s brokenness on your shoulders.

This is where my story with her ends. But it’s not where my story ends. My story continues, with love, with freedom, with the family I’m building now.

And with healing.