“I Refused to Be at My Mom’s Beck and Call”: Now I’m Struggling to Find Myself

Growing up in a small town in Ohio, I was the quintessential “good girl.” My mother, a single parent, relied heavily on me to help around the house and take care of my younger siblings. I was loved and praised for my willingness to help, my agreeable nature, and my ability to avoid conflict. These traits became so deeply ingrained in me that they followed me into adulthood.

In high school, I was the friend everyone could count on. Need help with homework? Call Sarah. Need someone to cover your shift at work? Sarah will do it. I never said no because I believed that being helpful and agreeable was the only way to be loved and accepted. My mother often reminded me how much she depended on me, and I took pride in being her rock.

When I went to college, I thought things would change. I moved to a different state, hoping to carve out a life for myself. But old habits die hard. I found myself falling into the same patterns—helping friends with their assignments, volunteering for every group project, and always being available for late-night chats. My phone was constantly buzzing with requests for help, and I never turned anyone down.

After college, I moved back home to Ohio. My mother was thrilled to have me back, and I quickly fell back into my old role. I helped her with everything—grocery shopping, paying bills, taking care of the house. My siblings had moved out by then, but they still called me whenever they needed something. I was the family problem-solver, the one who could always be counted on.

But as the years went by, I started to feel a growing sense of resentment. I was in my late twenties and had no life of my own. My friends were getting married, having kids, and advancing in their careers while I was stuck in the same place, doing the same things. I felt like I was living my mother’s life instead of my own.

One day, after yet another argument with my mother about my lack of free time, I decided enough was enough. I told her that I couldn’t be at her beck and call anymore. I needed to focus on myself and my own life. She was shocked and hurt, accusing me of being selfish and ungrateful. The guilt was overwhelming, but I knew I had to make a change.

I moved out of my mother’s house and got an apartment in the city. For the first time in my life, I had my own space and my own time. But it wasn’t the liberating experience I had hoped for. Without the constant demands of others, I felt lost and purposeless. My phone stopped ringing as much, and the silence was deafening.

I tried to fill the void by joining clubs and taking up hobbies, but nothing seemed to stick. The friends who once relied on me had moved on with their lives, and making new friends as an adult proved to be more challenging than I anticipated. My relationship with my mother became strained; she rarely called, and when she did, our conversations were awkward and stilted.

The loneliness began to take its toll on me. I started questioning whether I had made the right decision. Was it worth sacrificing my relationships for a chance at independence? The freedom I had longed for felt more like isolation. My mental health began to suffer, and I found myself sinking into depression.

I sought therapy to help me navigate these feelings, but progress was slow. The habits and traits that had defined me for so long were hard to break. My therapist encouraged me to set boundaries and prioritize self-care, but it felt like an uphill battle.

Now in my early thirties, I’m still struggling to find a balance between being there for others and taking care of myself. The journey has been far from easy, and there are days when I wonder if I’ll ever truly find my own path. But I’m trying to hold onto hope that one day I’ll figure it out.