For most of my life, I’ve carried something heavy. Not on my back—but in my chest, in my stomach, in the parts of me that never felt quite settled. A weight I couldn’t name, but always felt. It whispered that I owed her something.
Her—my birth mother.
I was adopted as a newborn, but she came back into my life early. My earliest memories of her aren’t moments, but gestures. Letters and gifts sent through the adoption agency every year on my birthday. Always filtered. Always surface-level. No addresses. No names. No real stories. Just enough to stir something confusing inside me.
I would wait with a strange excitement for those gifts. And then I’d sit down to write a thank-you letter. Always polite. Always distant. A weird performance of gratitude toward someone I didn’t actually know. Even then, something about it felt wrong. But I did it. Because I was told to. Because I thought I had to be grateful.
That belief stuck.
When I was finally allowed to meet her at 18, I thought maybe something real could begin. But what unfolded wasn’t a connection—it was pressure. She had three younger kids and I was suddenly expected to be a big sister. To visit. To call. To show up. I lived four hours away, juggling university, work, life. But I still made the trip. Once a month. Sometimes more. Exhausted but feeling like I had to. Like I was repaying something.
Meanwhile, my own family—the people who had raised me—felt the shift. My Mum especially. She once told me it felt like I cared more for this woman than for her. And that broke me. Because I didn’t even know what I was doing anymore. I wasn’t choosing love. I was choosing guilt. Obligation. Trying to keep everyone from hurting—except myself.
Looking back, I realize I was trying to earn something that should have never been expected of me. I thought if I gave enough, visited enough, cared enough—I could somehow fix the fracture from my birth. But that wound wasn’t mine to fix.
And still, the pressure kept building.
When my birth father came back into the picture, I felt caught between two people I barely knew. I didn’t even invite him in—just asked him to pick me up outside her house. But somehow, that was enough to spark resentment. Like I had betrayed her. Like I had chosen sides.
It didn’t matter what I needed. It was always about how she felt. Her discomfort. Her hurt. Her past.
And then came the breaking point.
I was fighting with my parents over something simple but deeply emotional: wanting my best friend—a boy—to come with me to my grandfather’s funeral for support. My Mum didn’t understand why I needed him there. In my confusion, I called my birth mother. I thought maybe she could comfort me. Maybe she could just listen.
Instead, she called me selfish.
Selfish.
After years of sacrificing my time, my energy, my peace—that was the word she chose for me. I don’t remember the rest of the conversation because I shut down. Numbed out. But I remember that word. And how it broke something in me.
She never once visited me. Not once. She was afraid to drive long distances. And I understood—she had her reasons. But reasons don’t erase the imbalance. It always fell on me to make the effort. To bridge the gap. To prove my worth.
Eventually, I left the country. And yes—she was a big reason why. I needed space. I needed to breathe. I needed freedom from the emotional tug-of-war that was slowly tearing me apart.
But even from across oceans, the guilt still came.
Messages continued—always laced with disappointment, with subtle jabs, with gaslighting. “Why don’t you message?” “Why don’t you visit?” As if she couldn’t see the patterns. As if I was always the problem.
Every time I came back home for a holiday, the old expectation would rear its head: When are you coming to see me? It was like I had no say. Like returning to the country meant I owed her a visit by default.
Until finally—I didn’t.
I asked her to meet me halfway. Just once. To make some effort. To show that this relationship wasn’t just on my shoulders.
She couldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
And that was it.
After that, I was done.
Now, the only access she has to me is through my Mum.
And even that stings.
I’ve told my Mum how she makes me feel. How deeply I’ve been wounded by her guilt trips and emotional manipulation. And yet, my Mum still keeps in touch. Out of kindness? Guilt? I don’t know. But it frustrates me deeply. It feels like my boundaries don’t matter. Like my pain doesn’t fully register. Like the tie I’ve spent years trying to break is being kept alive by someone who should be protecting me from it. I don’t blame my Mum, kindness is in her nature and how could she possibly understand when I am still processing it.
I know now that this sadness I carry has always been twinned with anger. And I’m learning to let both exist. I can mourn the loss of a connection I never had and still rage at the woman who hurt me. I can understand her humanity and still walk away from her. I can love myself enough to stop bleeding for someone who never saw the damage they caused.
I don’t owe her anything.
Not my time.
Not my energy.
Not my forgiveness.
Not my life.
What I owe is to myself—to heal. To feel. To say the things I was never allowed to say. To stop keeping quiet for other people’s comfort. And to finally, fully, be free.
