Breaking the Silence: How Faith Helped Me Heal My Relationship with Mom

“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” My mother’s voice sliced through the kitchen like a cold wind, making the glass of orange juice tremble in my hand. I was seventeen, standing in front of her with SAT prep books pressed tight to my chest, desperate for her approval but bracing for her disappointment.

“I’m not ruining anything. I just need to study, Mom,” I whispered, voice shaking, but it didn’t matter. She turned away, already lost in her own storm, slamming the cabinet doors as if the noise might drown out our problems. My heart pounded. I wanted to scream, to beg her to listen, to understand how much I needed her to care—but I swallowed the words. Like always.

That was our pattern: silence after shouting, days of tiptoeing around each other, the air thick with things unsaid. Sometimes I wondered if she even loved me, or if she just loved the idea of a daughter who didn’t make mistakes, who didn’t talk back, who got perfect grades and played piano recitals without missing a note. Sometimes I wished I could run away, leave the whole mess behind, but then guilt would seep in. She was my mother. Family was supposed to be forever, wasn’t it?

It got worse after Dad left. The shouting was louder, the silences longer. She would sit at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, eyes rimmed red, and say things like, “You’re just like him. Always running away from responsibility.” I didn’t know how to defend myself, so I stopped trying.

Church was never really my thing. We went on Easter and Christmas, bowed our heads, and left as soon as the final hymn ended. But during my junior year, when the fights reached a fever pitch, a friend from school—Emily—invited me to her youth group. I went, half out of curiosity, half because it got me out of the house on Thursday nights. I didn’t expect much, but I found something I didn’t know I was looking for: peace.

One night, after a particularly brutal argument with my mom about college applications, I broke down in the church parking lot. Emily found me, mascara streaked and shaking. “Have you tried praying about it?” she asked gently. I almost laughed, but the tenderness in her eyes made me pause.

“I don’t even know what I’d say,” I admitted. “God probably doesn’t want to hear from me.”

She squeezed my shoulder. “I think He does. Just talk to Him. Let it out.”

So I did. That night, lying awake in my dark room, I whispered everything I had been holding in: the anger, the pain, the hopelessness. It felt strange, speaking into the silence, but for the first time in months, I felt like someone was listening.

Prayer didn’t change things overnight. The next morning, Mom and I fought about my messy laundry. But something inside me began to shift. When she lashed out, I started praying for patience instead of plotting my escape. When she slammed doors, I prayed for her broken heart instead of cursing mine. It wasn’t easy. Some days, it felt impossible.

One Sunday, our pastor gave a sermon about forgiveness. He said, “Forgiveness isn’t about letting someone off the hook—it’s about setting yourself free.” I sat in the pew, fists clenched, thinking about all the ways my mother had hurt me, all the words she could never take back. Could I really forgive her? Did I even want to?

The breakthrough came on a rainy afternoon in April. I found my mother crying in the hallway, clutching a framed photo of our family from before Dad left. She looked so small, so lost, and for the first time I saw her pain, not just my own. I sat beside her, hesitant, and said, “Mom, I’m angry. I’m hurt. But I don’t want us to keep hurting each other.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, in a voice I barely recognized, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this without making mistakes.”

We cried together, the kind of tears that wash away years of resentment. That night, I prayed with my mom for the first time. It was awkward, full of pauses and stammered words, but it was real. And it was enough.

Things didn’t magically become perfect. We still argue. She still expects too much sometimes, and I still disappoint her. But now, when the anger flares up, I remember to breathe, to pray, to forgive—over and over again. Our relationship is a work in progress, but it’s no longer defined by pain.

Faith didn’t fix everything, but it gave me hope. It taught me that healing starts with honesty—with God, with each other, and with ourselves. And maybe, just maybe, family really can be forever, if we’re willing to fight for it.

Sometimes I wonder: How many of us are carrying wounds from the people we love most? And what if the first step to healing is asking for help—from God, from friends, or even from those who hurt us?