Not long after starting therapy, my mom and nana came to visit me in New York City. I came home after a long, try-hard day at work, bearing bagels and schmear for the weekend. I opened the door to my studio apartment where all four of us (including my now-husband Sean) were staying. I said something like, “YAY! You’re here! I got bagels for tomorrow morning!” Without skipping a beat, my mom deadpanned, “What about dinner? We’re hungry.” This was the first time I’d seen her in six months.

Over the course of that visit, Foxy (Foxy is the nickname for my mother that I use to minimize the emotional impact of her behavior—that’s marketing magic, baby) engaged in more conversations with strangers than with my nana and me. She ate grapes and threw the stems on my apartment floor (“Where am I supposed to put them?”). She offered to pay for dinner a total of zero times. On her way home, she called to say how much fun she had seeing the sights.

This list of grievances could come off as petty. When you zoom out, though, these are all examples of a larger pattern. My bagels, the happenings in my life she didn’t ask about, and my floor apparently weren’t important to her. It hurt to have that fact waved in my face as we shared 500 square feet for five days.

So my therapist encouraged me to tell her how mad I was. I’d never explicitly told Foxy how she’d hurt me before. My tactic was to ignore or laugh off as much as possible. When I couldn’t, I’d correct her behavior: “Stop ditching us to talk to random people! Please wear a bra while we’re all sleeping in the same room! Throw your trash in the garbage!” Then she’d scoff and say I was always criticizing her. This routine was embedded in the DNA of our relationship.

When I called to air my grievances, I tried to stay calm, explaining why future visits would be capped at four days or less. I brought up the bagel thing, the bra thing, and the grape thing. She scoffed. I lost it.

Twenty years of pent-up emotions came raging out. I told her how it seemed like she doesn’t give a shit about me, my feelings, or spending time with me. I told her that every time she leaves me and whoever we’re with to chat with strangers, it hurts. I told her I don’t care if she talks to randos at coffee shops; I do care that she doesn’t give me the same time and attention. I said the core of this whole issue is that I want my mom to want to hang out with me. I wanted my mom. Period. As I explained all that, I was sobbing and yelling in a way I’d never done with her before. I think she was caught off guard.

She said she was sorry I was so upset, and she didn’t mean to make me feel this bad. I sensed she didn’t get it. She changed the subject, and I let her. I’d expressed myself explicitly. She didn’t take the bait to repair the situation. Thus, I had confirmation that any future conversations in which I shared my feelings would be futile.

Over the next five years, I started to pull away. We spoke every three weeks, then once a month, then every other month. I limited how much I shared with her about my life: “Everything is fine. Work is busy. Sean is good.” Foxy noticed. Whenever we spoke, she’d remind me that I wasn't answering my phone or telling her the things I told the rest of my family.

I’d complain to my therapist about the guilt trips and manipulative texts and how sick I was of thinking about her all the time and worrying what she’d say to the rest of my family. My therapist always asked, “Why don’t you say that you’re pulling back because she isn’t nice to you?” I reasoned that it would be pointless, since nothing changed after the last time I confronted her. Plus, I got really caught up trying to predict her response and plan a rebuttal. Each of those mental arguments ended with me deciding to do nothing.

Then my therapist said, “What if the point of telling your mom about how you see your relationship isn’t to change her? What if it’s for you to say how you feel and what you want? Throw the ball back in her court.” So I crafted my State of the Relationship Speech, read it to her over the phone, and took detailed notes on her response. I emailed the speech to her later so she could refer to it as needed.

A month after I made my State of the Relationship Speech, the most significant effort she made happened when I called to say happy Easter. When she finished talking about her plans, she asked, “Is there anything you’d like me to ask you, you know, to be a good mom?”

I didn’t have the capacity to keep coaching, so I just said, “No.” Despite the jarring clarity about where we stood, I just couldn’t bring myself to set firmer boundaries. I believed my mom had the same emotional needs that I did. I would be crushed if she stopped answering my calls or said she could only talk once a month. I didn’t want to hurt her. But then my therapist asked, “What if it’s not that deep for her? What if she isn’t hurt that you’re not answering or worried that you don’t care about her? What if she’s just mad because she can’t access you?”

Even with that revelation, my boundary-setting trajectory was not up and to the right. I’d make some progress, then feel bad and go back to my old ways. Then, when a friend suggested blocking my mom’s number, something I’d never considered before, it clicked. Throughout my life, I treated my mom the way I wanted to be treated, not the way she treated me. But it turns out the golden rule has fine print I missed: You don’t have to make an effort for people who don’t do the same for you—even if that person is your mom.

I thought about blocking her for a while and finally decided to go for it—with caveats. I would unblock her for holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. I wasn’t cutting her off; I was taking space.

I hoped blocking Foxy would get her out of my head while also allowing for contact on occasions when I wanted to hear from her or show that I cared about her. I thought that would be enough for me to stop dwelling on her thoughts and feelings. But when I unblocked her on my birthday, it did not go as I planned. She texted me: Happy Birthday * sunglasses emoji * Call me if you want to talk. You NEVER answer when I call *weary face emoji* If your dr told you to do this so be it *rainbow emoji*

Despite the confusing use of emoji and aggressive passive aggression, I did call her. Over the phone, she wished me a happy birthday and then went on about where she was, what she did that week, the class she took at the YMCA, the cat, and how she’s looking for a new job—the usual. I hung up and blocked her…only to unblock her a few days later to say thanks for the birthday card. It contained a coupon for 20 percent off at Express.

Up until the last few years, estrangement (also called going low- or no-contact) wasn’t a thing I heard much about. These days, though, as a mental health editor and writer and a person on the internet, I’ve noticed a massive uptick in search traffic and social media interest around the subject—and in the number of people willing to talk about it. Another thing that happened in the last few years: I became estranged from my mom.

The moment I knew I had to change how this dynamic was dynamic-ing came months after I told my mom how I felt about our relationship (for those playing along at home, this would be my State of the Relationship Speech). At that point, I had been blocking my mom’s number on and off for months, yet I was still consumed by our relationship. I thought about her more often than not. I could hear her passive-aggressive comments in my head. I cautiously navigated my relationships with the people we had in common. I vented endlessly to Sean and any friend who’d hear me out—all while seeing a therapist every other week. This shit was so monotonous. I was sick of myself.

When I blocked my mom’s number for the last time, I didn’t feel that great at first. I tried to remember that she wasn’t willing to meet me where I needed her. She wanted the perks of a close relationship, like regular phone calls, walking me down the aisle, and headlines about my life she could share with her friends. She wanted to visit me so she could see “the sights” and post about it on Facebook. She was happy with a surface-level relationship, but maintaining it meant sacrificing my needs. I wasn’t willing to go along with her version of a “good” relationship anymore.

Today, I see my mom on holidays and at family gatherings. I give her a hug and say, “I love you.” And I barely clock her chaos. Last Christmas, my mom gave me re-gifted candy from her volunteer job (the tag read “From: hospice mom”). Also included: previously worn Santa socks and a well-used eyebrow pencil. I told her not to get me anything a long time ago, but I suppose she was in the holiday spirit.

Instead of feeling shitty, misunderstood, and disappointed, I laughed and added it to a file in my brain named “Evidence that this relationship is weird.”

Printed with permission from Motherf*cked: How to Keep Your Mother’s Toxic Drama From Ruining Your Life (April 2026; BenBella Books) by Ashley Oerman.