Recently, I listened to my daughter’s podcast and heard her describe me as an “emotionally unattached parent.”
Those words landed like a punch to the gut.
Not because I think I was a perfect mother—no such thing exists—but because everything in my heart, my memories, and my lived reality says I was the exact opposite.
The Mother I Know I Was
I was the mom who showed up.
I was at the doctor’s appointments, dentist visits, sports practices, games, school events, and plays. I read bedtime stories, tucked her in, and whispered “you are so loved” more times than I can count. I called her my sunshine because she truly lit up every room she walked into, and my world revolved around making sure she knew that. I was essentially a single parent.
While her father focused on his career and traveled most of the time, I gave up mine to fill in the gaps to be two parents in one—emotional anchor, cheerleader, driver, tutor, advocate, and safe place. I was juggling not just her needs, but also her brother’s challenges and the weight of an abusive marriage I stayed in far too long because I believed keeping the family “together” was what the kids needed.
Was I tired? Absolutely. Overwhelmed? Often. But emotionally detached? No. If anything, I was hyper attached—tuned in, over-functioning, and constantly trying to fill in all the gaps.
When Love Starts Looking Like Limits
My daughter also shared how she “lost herself” because we moved a lot. I don’t dismiss that experience. Moving is hard on kids and teenagers. They leave friends, routines, and familiarity behind. Their grief is real.
At the same time, I remember those moves differently. I remember doing everything I could to make each new place feel like home. I remember the opportunities—great schools, new cultures, safe neighborhoods, travel experiences that many kids never get. I remember saying yes to activities and sports and adventures because I wanted her world to feel big, not small.
And then came the teenage years.
Like many teens, she went down a darker path—partying, drugs, and men who did not deserve her. That was when my role as “fun, cozy mom” had to shift. Love had to become boundaries. Curfews. Rules. Consequences. Hard conversations. Tears on both sides.
From the outside—or years later on a podcast—those years might look like “emotional disconnection.” From my side, it was the hardest, most courageous kind of love: stepping in, saying no, and refusing to watch my child self-destruct without intervening. I was doing my job – and well!
I was not abandoning her. I was fighting for her.
The Narcissist in the Middle
There’s another piece to this story that matters: I wasn’t co-parenting with a healthy partner. I was co-parenting with a man who has spent years rewriting reality, painting himself as the victim, and casting me as the “crazy, unstable, bad mom.” We were never on the same page; co-parenting.
During and after the divorce, he weaponized the kids’ love and loyalty. He has told them his version of events again and again—the one where I’m the problem, I’m the drama, I’m the unstable one. He knew my greatest fear has always been losing my relationship with my children, and openly threatened to ruin that bond.
That is the hallmark of narcissistic abuse: not just hurting you directly, but slowly eroding how others see you, especially your own children. Little digs. Half-truths. Stories told just skewed enough that you look like the villain.
And the painful part is this: I can see ways it’s working.
When my daughter sits behind a microphone and tells the world I was emotionally unattached, a part of me hears his voice coming out of her mouth. The same labels. The same distortions. The same rewriting of history where he’s the hero, and I’m the failure.
I don’t blame her for all of that. She was raised in the same fog I lived in for years. When you grow up around a narcissist, their story feels like the truth. Questioning it can feel like betrayal. It’s easier to side with the parent who seems powerful, successful, and certain than the one who’s been struggling, emotional, or broken open.
But just because a story is told with confidence doesn’t make it true.
Two Stories, One Past
What hurts the most isn’t just the label—it’s hearing our shared history told like a one-dimensional story where I’m the villain or the ghost.
She speaks publicly about the instability, the moves, the divorce, and my supposed absence… while leaving out the part where I was representing myself in court to save money because her father burned most of it on legal fees. She leaves out the part where I stayed longer than I should have in a toxic marriage to keep some form of stability. She leaves out the nights I couldn’t sleep because I was worried about how to afford their activities, school, and life while my own needs went on the back burner.
I don’t say this to shame her. She is allowed to tell her story. She is allowed to have her feelings, her lens, her pain.
But I am allowed to have mine, too.
God knows my heart. He saw the nights I lay awake, wondering if I was enough. He saw the times I almost broke, but got back up for my kids. He saw the ways I kept showing up, even when I was broke and broken. He also saw the manipulation, the gaslighting, and the quiet campaign to turn my own children against me.
Grace, Boundaries, and the 3 Choices
My daughter likes to talk about the “3 C’s” and the power of choice. In my own words, I see it like this:
- Complain – Stay stuck in the pain and replay the same grievances.
- Compare/Condemn – Focus on what others didn’t do perfectly and stay in blame.
- Celebrate – Acknowledge the good, the gifts, the ways love did show up—even in imperfect circumstances.
She has chosen, at least for now, to tell the story through complaint and condemnation. I wish she could also see the other side: that she never went without, that she had opportunities many children only dream about, that she had a mother who loved her fiercely and would have taken a bullet for her—who almost did for her, in some ways.
I’ve extended grace to her more times than I can count. There were times her actions hurt me deeply. Times she didn’t show up for me when I desperately needed her. Times I felt abandoned, judged, or dismissed. I could have gone public with those stories. I could have dragged her name through the mud, too.
I chose not to.
That, to me, is what grace and forgiveness look like: seeing someone’s flaws, recognizing your pain, and still choosing not to humiliate them.
The Boundary I Have to Hold
Hearing myself spoken about so harshly and inaccurately on a public platform—and knowing there is a narcissistic narrative behind it—has forced me into yet another boundary lesson.
I have always believed that love is supporting and lifting one another up—not breaking each other down for content or applause.
I still love my daughter. I am still proud of the woman she is becoming. I still pray for her and cheer for her from my corner of the world. But I also have to protect my own heart now.
I am too fragile—and frankly, too seasoned in this life—to continue being a doormat or a punching bag, even for people I love.
So this is where my boundary lives:
- You can tell your story.
- But you cannot continue to publicly distort mine without expecting me to step back and protect myself.
Maybe one day, if and when she becomes a mother, she’ll understand the deep, quiet, relentless selflessness that parenting really is—the way you hand your heart to your children and hope they won’t stomp on it when they’re older and hurting.
To Other Moms Who Feel Misunderstood
If you’re reading this and you, too, have been painted as the “bad mom,” the “emotionally unavailable” one, or the “problem” in someone else’s story—especially after surviving narcissistic abuse—please hear me:
- Your memories matter.
- Your version of events matters.
- Your love and sacrifice count, even if they’re never fully recognized.
You can love your child and still hold boundaries. You can want reconciliation and still refuse to be humiliated. You can practice grace and still honor your own healing.
I have always believed that real love means supporting and lifting one another up—not tearing each other down.
God knows your heart, too. And even in the middle of heartbreak and confusion, I believe He is still capable of writing redemption into our stories. I don’t know exactly how my relationship with my daughter will heal or when, but I choose to keep a small light of hope burning—that one day we’ll be able to look at each other with softer eyes, kinder words, and a deeper understanding of how much we have always loved each other, even when she couldn’t see it clearly.
Year of Thorns 