Why Is It So Hard to Let Go?

You would think that once you finally understand what is happening, letting go would be easy.

It isn't.

For me, one of the biggest reasons was empathy.

I've always had a pretty good sense of people. I can often see their pain, even when they aren't talking about it. I can feel when someone is hurting or lost.

And even though my mother could be incredibly mean and hurtful, I could also see something else.

I could see that she was lost herself.

That mattered to me.

I could see her pain, so I made room for it.

I understood that there had to be reasons she was the way she was.

So I stayed.

I tried.

I forgave.

I hoped.

And then guilt entered the picture, too.

Because she's my mom.

How do you walk away from your mom?

The problem was that while I could have empathy for whatever pain she carried, she wasn't doing anything to address it.

She didn't get help.

She didn't do the work.

And while I was busy understanding her pain, I continued to suffer because of it.

That's something I eventually had to face.

I could understand why someone might be hurting, but that didn't make what was happening to me hurt any less.

When You Can't Just Leave

There is something else we need to talk about when the narcissistic relationship involves a parent.

Children can't just leave.

When I was growing up, I didn't even know what narcissistic abuse was. I didn't understand why these things were happening to me.

I didn't learn about narcissism until 2015.

Before that, I was simply trying to make sense of a relationship that had never made sense to me.

And family dynamics make it even more complicated.

Who do you tell?

Your aunt?

Your uncle?

A family friend?

What happens when they don't believe you?

What happens when the person you experience behind closed doors is completely different from the person everyone else sees?

Maybe everyone thinks your mother is wonderful.

Maybe she's charming.

Maybe she's helpful.

Maybe other people think she's practically a saint.

And you're standing there thinking:

Does anyone see what happens when they're gone?

That's an incredibly lonely world to live in.

Eventually, I realized I couldn't continue surrounding myself with people who didn't believe my experience or even bother to ask whether I was okay.

And I want to say something here that I wish more adults understood:

If a child in your life is telling you that something is wrong at home, listen.

Believe that their feelings and experiences deserve to be taken seriously.

Ask questions.

Pay attention.

Help them find a safe, trustworthy adult or professional who can support them.

A child doesn't have the same choices an adult has.

Sometimes there is nowhere for them to go.

I know because I was that child.

Why Do We Keep Going Back?

Even as adults, leaving isn't always one big, clean decision.

Sometimes you leave emotionally and go back.

Sometimes you create distance and then something happens that gives you hope again.

A phone call.

A kind text.

An apology.

An invitation.

For just a moment you think:

Maybe this time.

That's what makes these relationships so difficult.

You're not necessarily holding onto the hurt.

You're holding onto hope.

Hope that this time the relationship will finally become what you've always wanted it to be.

I wanted a mother-daughter relationship.

I wanted a sister.

Those are pretty simple things to want.

And I kept hoping I would eventually have them.

The Funeral

One of the experiences that ultimately changed things for me happened when my stepfather died.

I flew into town and went straight to him.

I told him I loved him.

He told me he loved me, too.

He died within about twenty minutes.

I will always be grateful that I got those final words with him.

But what happened around his death and funeral was devastating.

Hospice had placed him in my childhood bedroom, against a wall.

I couldn't understand it.

Why wasn't this man allowed to spend his final days in his own bedroom?

It was heartbreaking to see.

About a month later, his funeral was scheduled for my birthday weekend.

I wanted to speak at his funeral.

My mother told me children don't speak at their parents' funerals.

Except my stepbrother was allowed to speak.

Once again, there it was.

Why does the rule apply to me but not to someone else?

The night before the funeral, we were watching a video of memories of my stepdad.

I was sitting next to one of my stepbrothers. I asked him if I could hold his hand when he went up to speak at the church so that I could feel like I was part of the service.

My mother walked by.

“What are you conniving?”

Nothing.

I wasn't conniving anything.

I was grieving.

I went to my bedroom, got my luggage and decided I was going to a hotel.

My mother followed me down the hall, yelling that I wasn't allowed to speak at the funeral. She told me that if I did speak, I wasn't allowed to talk about the relationship I had with my stepdad.

Then my sister came in.

She started yelling at me, too.

I told her to leave. This had nothing to do with her.

My mother's response was:

“She protects me!”

I told my sister again to leave me alone.

She came toward me and shoved me backward against the wall.

And here's something I still remember:

No one came to help me.

I got my luggage and went toward the front door to call an Uber.

And then suddenly everything changed.

My mother came after me apologizing.

We didn't mean it.

It's okay.

You can read a Psalm tomorrow.

And I stayed.

Of course I stayed.

I was grieving. I loved my stepfather. I wanted to be part of his funeral. And suddenly, after all that chaos, I was being offered just enough to make staying seem possible again.

That is what I want my Willows to understand.

Something incredibly hurtful happens.

You decide you've had enough.

And then comes an apology, affection, kindness, a promise, or just enough hope to make you reconsider.

So you stay.

And later you wonder:

Why did I stay?

Because it isn't always as simple as other people think it is.

And Then Came Hope Again

A couple of years later, something happened that gave me hope all over again.

My sister started texting me.

Not just responding.

Initiating.

She was being nice to me.

And I was in heaven.

I thought, Oh my God. She changed.

This was the sister relationship I had wanted.

So when Thanksgiving came around, I went home to spend it with my mother and sister.

I wanted to believe things were different.

I took the bait.

The first day I was there, the three of us were talking in the kitchen.

I mentioned that I hadn't liked my sister's married boyfriend from a couple of years earlier.

And they ripped into me.

I started crying.

And I remember thinking:

Why did I come back?

I had known.

But I had hoped.

And hope can be incredibly powerful.

Two days later, on my last night there, we were at my sister's house.

An argument started about something, but eventually it turned toward me, like it so often did.

It got bad enough that I told my mother I wanted to go home.

We walked outside toward the car.

My sister followed me outside.

And then she said:

“At least I have a good relationship with my children.”

Those are the last words I have ever allowed my sister to say to me.

To say they were hurtful doesn't come close.

But something was different this time.

I was done.

Why This Time?

Why did I leave then when I hadn't left all the other times?

I think timing has a lot to do with it.

There may come a point when the hope that kept pulling you back no longer outweighs what the relationship is doing to you.

For me, that moment came.

I didn't suddenly stop wishing I had a sister.

I didn't suddenly stop wishing I had the mother-daughter relationship I had always wanted.

I had to let go of something much harder.

The hope that these particular relationships were ever going to become what I needed them to be.

And that's a very different kind of letting go.

Maybe You're Not Ready

So, my Willows, I'm not going to sit here and tell you that today is the day you need to leave someone.

I can't tell you that.

Your circumstances are yours.

Maybe you're a child and leaving isn't even an option.

Maybe you're financially dependent on someone.

Maybe you're still trying to understand what is happening.

Maybe you're not ready.

Maybe you don't want to leave at all.

That's why I believe timing matters.

What I can tell you is to start looking honestly at the relationship in front of you.

Not only at its potential.

Not only at the good days.

Not only at the person you're hoping they'll become.

Look at the whole relationship.

And ask yourself:

What am I actually holding onto?

Is it the person?

Is it guilt?

Is it empathy?

Is it the good times?

Is it the relationship you wish you had?

Or is it the hope that someday this person will finally become who you've needed them to be?

You don't have to answer that question today.

Just be willing to ask it.

When I Was Finally Ready

For me, there wasn't one magical moment when everything stopped hurting and suddenly walking away became easy.

I still wanted a sister.

I still wanted my mom.

I still wanted those relationships to be something they had never been.

But eventually, wanting them wasn't enough to keep me there.

I had gone back. I had forgiven. I had hoped. I had tried again.

And again.

Until one day, I didn't.

Those last words from my sister were the last words I ever allowed her to say to me.

I left.

And I never looked back.

What surprised me most was what I found on the other side.

Freedom.

I've never felt more free.

Not because I stopped caring.

Not because the relationships suddenly meant nothing to me.

And not because walking away erased everything that happened.

I was free because I was no longer waiting for someone else to change before I could live my life.

I wasn't waiting for my sister to finally become the sister I wanted.

I wasn't waiting for my mother to finally become the mother I needed.

I could still wish those relationships had been different without continuing to put myself back into them hoping that someday they would be.

And maybe that's part of why letting go is so hard.

Sometimes you're not just letting go of a person.

You're letting go of what you always hoped the relationship could be.

So if you're still holding on, my Willows, I'm not here to judge you.

I understand why you hope.

I understand why you try again.

I understand why one kind text, one apology, or one good day can make you wonder if maybe this time will be different.

And I understand why you might not be ready.

Your timing is your own.

But while you're figuring it out, keep asking yourself:

What am I actually holding onto?

Because eventually, the answer to that question may tell you more than anyone else ever could.

And whatever you decide, don't forget the person whose life is happening while you're waiting.

You.

You're not crazy.

You're not foolish because you stayed.

You're not foolish because you went back.

And you're not foolish because part of you still hopes.

You're here.

You're paying attention.

And that matters.

Let's grow, my Willows.