Growing up in a home marked by unpredictability and emotional instability leaves a deep imprint. As a mother now myself, I often ask: am I doing enough to break that cycle? This is how I approach conversations about mental health with my children — not only to help them understand but also to protect them from the shadows of my past.

Everyone’s experience with mental wellness is unique. This is mine.

A Childhood Shaped by Fear and Confusion

From a young age, it was clear that my mother wasn’t like other parents. She lived with intense fears — afraid to drive, hesitant to leave the house, and haunted by an overwhelming fear of death. Some of my earliest memories are of her tearfully telling me to learn how to live without her.

She spoke often of seeing things others couldn’t: voices only she heard, shadows she believed were watching. Her paranoia extended to the neighbors — she'd monitor them from behind curtains, convinced they were talking about her.

Minor missteps at home, such as tracking footprints across a clean floor, could trigger an outburst of yelling and tears. At other times, if she felt slighted or criticized, she would go silent for days.

I became more than just her daughter — I was her emotional caretaker. She confided in me as if I were the adult, and she the frightened child.

My father, meanwhile, battled alcoholism. Their arguments often escalated into shouting matches that lasted long into the night. I would hide under my blanket with a book, hoping for the noise to stop.

Periods of withdrawal were common. My mother would vanish into her room or lie on the couch for days, eyes fixed blankly on the TV.

As I grew more independent, her attempts to control my life intensified. When I moved out at 18 to attend college in another state, she called constantly — sometimes multiple times a day. At 23, when I told her I was relocating to live with my fiancé, she responded, “Why are you abandoning me? I might as well be dead.”

That sentence still echoes in my memory.

Her Refusal to Seek Treatment

Though I didn’t have the language for it at the time, by high school I began to suspect my mother was living with an undiagnosed mental illness. I became fascinated by psychology and devoured textbooks, trying to match her behaviors with clinical terms.

Today, I believe she struggled with anxiety and depression, possibly compounded by bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. But she refused to see a therapist or doctor. Any mention of seeking help was met with denial, anger, or guilt-tripping.

“Why do you hate me? What did I do wrong as a mother?” she once screamed when I gently suggested she talk to someone qualified, instead of relying on me — a teenager — to process her inner pain.

Her fear of being labeled mentally unstable was so powerful that she chose silence and suffering over support. And while some people close to me warned that I’d regret distancing myself from her, they didn’t witness the daily heartbreak.

Eventually, I stopped taking her calls. Each one ended in tears — hers or mine — and it became clear that contact with her was harming my own well-being. The final straw came after I experienced a miscarriage, and she told me I wouldn’t make a good mother anyway because I was “too selfish.”

From that moment on, I knew that love alone wasn’t enough to maintain our relationship. Protecting my mental health meant making the hardest decision I’ve ever faced: cutting her off.

Prioritizing My Own Mental Well-Being

Growing up in that environment left me highly attuned to my own mental health. I learned to recognize signs of emotional strain, and I became mindful of what situations or people might trigger anxiety or sadness.

While I’ve experienced my own struggles — mostly bouts of mild depression or situational anxiety — I’ve always been proactive in seeking help when I need it. After a recent surgery left me unexpectedly anxious, I spoke to a doctor right away.

I have a strong support system now, and I treat my mental health with the same seriousness as my physical health. That balance gives me a sense of peace my mother never allowed herself to find.

Even so, I can’t help but worry about my kids.

Watching My Children Closely

I’ve read studies and consulted resources about how mental health conditions can run in families. Genetics aren’t destiny, but I know there’s a possibility that my children could inherit some of the same vulnerabilities.

I pay close attention to changes in their behavior — not out of paranoia, but as a precaution. I want to spot anything early. I want to be the parent who sees and acts, not the one who denies and ignores.

Sometimes I find myself angry all over again — not just at the illness, but at my mother’s resistance to healing. She knew something was wrong. She knew she needed help. And she still chose silence.

But I also try to show compassion for the fear that likely kept her from speaking up. In her mind, maybe survival meant secrecy. I can’t know everything that shaped her choices, so I do my best to believe she did what she thought was right.

Choosing Openness Over Silence

One of the most powerful changes I’ve made is how we talk about emotions in my home. My sons, now six and eight, may not fully grasp mental illness, but they understand feelings. We talk about sadness, frustration, and fear without shame. They know emotions are valid and that it’s okay to ask for help.

I’ve told them, in age-appropriate language, that my mother was often unhappy and didn’t seek help when she needed it. I’ll share more when they’re ready to hear it. For now, they just know she passed away — and that I miss her, but I also missed her long before she died.

And most importantly, I’ve promised them that they won’t lose me the way I lost her.

A Commitment to Change

My children may carry traces of my mother in their DNA, just as I do. But they will grow up in a home where mental health is discussed, where feelings are named, and where support is given freely and without judgment.

I cannot rewrite the past. But I can rewrite the narrative moving forward.

By breaking the cycle of denial and secrecy, I hope to give my children what I never had — a safe place to be human, to be vulnerable, and to be loved through it all.