“Mom Cries Because I Won’t Let Her Care for Me”: How Her Overprotection Hurts Us Both

“Mom Cries Because I Won’t Let Her Care for Me”: How Her Overprotection Hurts Us Both

From the moment I could walk and talk, my mom, Ariana, was my shadow. Her presence was constant and her involvement in my life, overwhelming. She chose the cartoons I watched, the toys I played with, and even the kids I should befriend. As I grew older, her grip didn’t loosen; it tightened.

When I was about ten, I remember coming home from school to find a new set of action figures on my bed. They were the latest, most popular ones, but I hadn’t asked for them. Mom had noticed I’d been playing with similar toys at Jacob’s house and decided I should have the best set. It might sound like a dream to any kid, but for me, it was another reminder that my choices weren’t really mine.

In middle school, things escalated. Mom would hover at the sidelines during my soccer practices, cheering loudly, sometimes even directing me from the sidelines as if the coach weren’t there. One time, she argued with Coach Brian about not letting me play enough, causing a scene that had my teammates snickering for weeks. I loved soccer, but I started to dread each practice and game.

High school brought new challenges. Mom picked my courses, talked to my teachers about my assignments, and if she could have, she would have sat beside me in class. I began to push back, insisting on making my own choices. I chose a graphic design class over the advanced calculus she wanted. It was my first real act of rebellion, and it felt good, even if it was a small victory.

But with each step I took towards independence, Mom took it as a personal affront. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t want her to pick out my prom outfit or why I didn’t consult her about my college applications. “I’m just trying to help,” she’d say, tears welling up in her eyes. “Why won’t you let me care for you?”

Our arguments grew more frequent and more intense. I felt guilty for making her sad, but suffocated by her love. It wasn’t care; it was control. When I chose a college in another state, she was devastated. She saw it as a betrayal, not an achievement.

The day I left for college, Mom didn’t come to say goodbye. She stayed in her room, crying. Dad said she felt like I was abandoning her. I understood her pain, but I also knew I needed to live my own life. I needed to make my own mistakes, choose my own path.

Now, as I sit in my dorm room, miles away from home, I feel a mix of relief and sorrow. I miss her, but I also fear going back. Our relationship has frayed at the edges, damaged by years of her well-intentioned but smothering love. I wonder if we’ll ever find a way to mend it, to redefine what it means for us to care for each other.

As I look towards the future, I’m hopeful but realistic. Healing, I know, might not come easy or soon. And perhaps, it might never come at all.