My Independence Day: 11 Years No Contact

Today marks 11 years since I went no contact with my narcissistic mother. Eleven years since I made the hardest, bravest, most life-changing decision of my life. Eleven years since I chose myself.

I call it my Independence Day. Not in sadness or regret, but in celebration; a recognition of my strength, my healing and how far I've come.

November 21, 2014. I can still remember the weight in my chest, the fear, the guilt, the voice in my head screaming that I was making a terrible mistake. Walking away from your own mother; even one who has caused you so much harm, feels like breaking an unbreakable rule.

The final conversation between us was one I'll never forget; not because I want to remember it, but because some words cut so deep they leave permanent scars. She told me she wished she had aborted me.

There was no coming back from that. No repairing. No second chance worth taking.

For years, I had been the one reaching out after every blow, trying to salvage the relationship, trying to earn a love that was never going to be unconditional. But this time, I was determined. I drew the boundary and didn't look back.

However, going no contact didn't just mean walking away from her. It meant giving up my six year old brother; a child I loved deeply, a child I had helped raise. That loss was almost unbearable. But I knew I had to heal myself first if I was ever going to be strong enough to be there for him one day.

So I did the unthinkable. I set a boundary that couldn't be crossed. I chose my wellbeing over her comfort. I stopped answering. I stopped explaining. I stopped hoping she would change.

I went no contact. And my life was never the same.

I won't romanticise those first months and years. They were brutal. The guilt was suffocating. The grief was overwhelming. The fear that I'd made a mistake haunted me daily.

Going no contact doesn't immediately bring peace; it often brings a tidal wave of emotions you've been suppressing for years. When you're finally safe enough to feel, everything comes flooding in at once; anger, sadness, betrayal, loss and a grief so deep it feels like you're mourning someone who's still alive.

And then there was the grief for my brother. The little boy I had to leave behind. The ache of not being there for him, not seeing him grow up, not being able to protect him the way I wished I could. That pain was; and sometimes still is, overwhelming.

I questioned myself constantly. Am I overreacting? Am I being cruel? What if she changes? What if I regret this? Should I have stayed for my brother?

But slowly; painfully slowly, something began to shift.

The first year was survival. The second year was processing. By the third year, I started to notice something remarkable, I was healing.

I wasn't walking on eggshells anymore. I wasn't bracing for criticism or managing someone else's emotions. I wasn't shrinking myself to fit into the impossible role of "good daughter" to a mother who would never be satisfied.

For the first time in my life, I could just be.

I started setting boundaries in other relationships; boundaries I'd never had the courage to set before. I began recognising my own worth, not as something I had to earn, but as something inherent. I learnt to trust my own instincts, my own memories, my own truth.

I discovered who I was beyond the survival patterns I'd developed to cope with her abuse. The people-pleasing, the perfectionism, the hypervigilance; they started to soften. Not completely, not overnight, but gradually, gently, they began to release their grip.

I found my voice. I wrote my story. I connected with a community of survivors who understood in ways no one else could.

And I realised, going no contact wasn't the end of my life. It was the beginning.

I also held onto hope for my brother. I knew that healing myself was the only way I could ever be strong enough to support him when the time came. I had to break the cycle within myself first.

Independence Day isn't about mourning what was lost. It's about celebrating what was gained.

I gained my freedom. Freedom from manipulation, gaslighting and emotional abuse. Freedom from the constant anxiety of wondering when the next blow would land.

I gained my peace. The kind of peace that comes from not having to defend yourself, explain yourself or shrink yourself to make someone else comfortable.

I gained my authenticity. I learnt who I am when I'm not performing, not caretaking, not trying to be enough for someone who will never see me as enough.

I gained my future. No contact allowed me to break generational cycles of abuse. It gave me the space to heal so I wouldn't pass my wounds onto others.

I gained the strength to be there for my brother one day. By choosing to heal, I became the person I needed to be; not just for myself, but for him too. Choosing myself wasn't selfish. It was the most loving thing I could do for both of us.

This day; November 21st, represents the moment I chose myself. The moment I decided my mental health, my peace and my life mattered more than maintaining a relationship that was destroying me.

That's worth celebrating.

If you're reading this and you're early in your no-contact journey; or considering it, here's what I wish I could tell my younger self:

1. The guilt will lessen

Those first months, the guilt felt unbearable. Now? It's barely a whisper. You realise that protecting yourself isn't selfish, it's survival.

2. The grief is real and that's okay

You're allowed to grieve the mother you deserved but never had. You're allowed to mourn the relationship you tried so hard to salvage. You're allowed to grieve the collateral losses of siblings, extended family, the fantasy of what could have been. Grief doesn't mean you made the wrong choice.

3. Healing isn't linear

Some years were easier than others. Some triggers still catch me off guard. That doesn't mean I'm not healing, it means I'm human.

4. You'll rediscover joy

Joy you didn't know was possible when you were constantly braced for the next emotional blow. Simple, quiet joy that comes from safety, peace and self-acceptance.

5. Your truth matters

She may deny it. Others may question it. But your truth; your experience, your memories, your pain, is valid. You don't need anyone's permission to protect yourself.

6. You're stronger than you know

Walking away from family takes extraordinary courage. You survived the abuse. You'll survive the healing.

7. Sometimes choosing yourself means sacrificing other relationships

Losing contact with my brother was one of the most painful parts of going no contact. But I had to trust that healing myself was the only way I'd ever be strong enough to be there for him when he needed me. That gamble; that faith in the future, was part of the price of freedom.

Whether you're celebrating your first week, your first month, your first year or, like me, your eleventh year of no contact, I see you.

I see the courage it took to walk away. I see the grief you carry. I see the strength you embody every single day by choosing yourself.

If you had to leave siblings, children or other loved ones behind to protect yourself, I see that pain too. I see the impossible choices you've had to make. And I want you to know, choosing to heal yourself is not abandonment. It's the only way you'll ever be strong enough to help them when the time comes.

This journey isn't easy. But it's worth it. Every boundary you set, every moment of peace you reclaim, every time you choose healing over toxicity, it's worth it.

You're not alone. You're not broken. And you're not doing anything wrong by protecting your peace.

Eleven years ago, I made a choice that saved my life. I didn't know it then, but I was giving myself the greatest gift I'd ever receive; the freedom to heal, to grow, to become who I was always meant to be.

I walked away from a mother who told me she wished I'd never been born. I left behind a little brother I loved with all my heart. I chose the painful, uncertain path of healing over the familiar devastation of staying.

And today? I don't regret it. Not for a second.

So today, I'm not mourning. I'm not regretting. I'm celebrating; celebrating my strength, my resilience, my healing and the beautiful, peaceful life I've built on the other side of that decision.

Happy Independence Day to me. And to every survivor out there choosing themselves.

You deserve your freedom. You deserve your peace. You deserve your life.