Mother’s Day When Your Mother Wasn’t a Mother: A Letter to Daughters of Narcissists

Today marks Mother's Day in the UK. For many, today is a celebration of warmth, gratitude, and homemade cards. But for those of us raised by narcissistic mothers, this day can feel like salt in a wound that never fully heals. If you’re reading this, I see you. I see the ache of longing for a mother who couldn’t love you, the guilt for feeling relief at distance, and the exhaustion of pretending this day doesn’t sting. You’re not alone—and your feelings are valid.

The Day That Highlights the Void

Mother’s Day isn’t just a reminder of what we didn’t have; it’s a spotlight on the betrayal of being raised by someone who treated love as a transaction. Narcissistic mothers don’t nurture—they manipulate. They don’t protect—they control. And while the world posts tributes to “best mums ever,” we’re left sorting through fragments of a relationship that was never really about us.

It’s okay if today brings:

• Grief for the mother you deserved but never got.

• Anger at the lies, the gaslighting, the emotional abandonment.

• Relief if you’ve gone no-contact, and the quiet shame that follows.

• Indifference because some days, numbness is the kindest survival skill.

You don’t owe anyone performative gratitude. Your healing comes first.

Reclaiming the Day for Yourself

This Mother’s Day, give yourself permission to rewrite the script. Here’s how:

1. Honour Your Inner Child: Do something she loved—colour, dance, eat cake for breakfast.

2. Set Boundaries: Silence calls, ignore guilt-tripping texts. You’re not responsible for her emotions.

3. Celebrate “Chosen Mothers”: Honour the women who showed up when yours didn’t—teachers, mentors, friends.

Motherhood isn’t defined by biology. It’s defined by love, safety, and consistency—things many of us found elsewhere.

A Tribute to Roe: The Mother My Heart Chose

And that’s why I want to end this post by honouring Roe.

If there’s one person who taught me what real motherhood looks like, it’s Roe. She wasn’t related to me by blood, but she gave me something far more precious: unconditional love.

I met Roe when I moved into her home, desperate to escape the toxicity of my mother’s grip. From the moment I stepped through her door, she treated me like family. Roe had been a foster carer for years, and it showed—she had this rare ability to make you feel safe, seen, and valued without ever demanding anything in return.

While my biological mother weaponised love, Roe practiced it as an art. She didn’t just offer me a room; she offered a sanctuary. Her home smelled like home cooked meals and laundry detergent—simple, comforting scents I’d never associated with “home” before.

What struck me most was how Roe mothered without conditions. She didn’t keep score of favours or weaponise guilt. When I confessed my fears about failing or my grief over fractured family ties, she’d validate me and encourage me. Words my own mother had never spoken.

Roe showed me that family isn’t about biology—it’s about showing up. She celebrated my small victories and when I stumbled, she never said “I told you so.” Instead, she’d pour us a glass of wine and say, “Let’s figure this out together.”

My mother was of course threatend by Roe. She’d sneer, “Why do you need that woman?” But Roe never bit back. She just kept loving me—steadily, fiercely—proving that real mothers don’t compete. They root for you.

Roe taught me that healing isn’t about replacing the mother I lost—it’s about recognising the love I deserved all along. And for that, I’ll be forever grateful.

To the woman who chose me: Thank you for being the calm after the storm.Thank you for showing me that love doesn’t bruise. Most of all, thank you for proving that family isn’t born—it’s built.

To You, This Mother’s Day

If your mother couldn’t love you, it wasn’t your fault. If today hurts, let it. Then, dare to celebrate the parts of you that survived her, and the people who helped you do it.

And if you’re still searching for your “Roe”? Keep your heart open. They’re out there—the ones who see you, love you, and remind you that family is a verb, not a bloodline.

You are worthy of that love. Today and always.

P.S. If today feels heavy, my Healing Journal is filled with prompts to help you process grief and reclaim your voice. You don’t have to walk this path alone.