'I'm nothing like my narcissist mother. But I’m afraid that one day I'll snap — just like she did.'

If you want to support independent women's media, become a Mamamia subscriber. Get an all-access pass to everything we make, including exclusive podcasts, articles, videos and our exercise app, MOVE.

My mother abandoned me when I was 15. She didn't vanish in the night. It was worse than that. It was deliberate. It was like one day she just… decided she was done.

After years of sacrifice — raising four children — she must've looked in the mirror one morning and thought, 'That's it. I'm finished. I want my life back'.

So she left.

But you don't have to leave your children to find yourself. Do you?

At 15, I believed it was my fault. I told myself I wasn't enough. Maybe if I'd tried harder, been better, quieter, told her I loved her more, and been more helpful, she would've stayed.

It's only now, as an adult, that I can say the truth out loud: My mother is a narcissist. And I live with the quiet fear that I'll become her.

They say we grow into what we know. But what if what we knew was abandonment? What if the only version of motherhood we saw was self-absorbed and conditional?

I am nothing like my mother. Not in the way I love, the way I nurture, or the way I parent. We share the same green eyes, but that's about where the resemblance ends. Still… the fear lingers. The fear that somewhere deep inside me is a breaking point I haven't met yet. That one day, I'll snap — just like she did. And what if I walk away too?

Watch: Can narcissists change? Story continues after podcast.

I haven't seen my mother in any real way for 15 years. And yet, when she found out I was getting married, she messaged me and said, "I deserve to be honoured at your wedding."

It was like being slapped in the face.

But first, let me take it back.

As a child, I idolised my mum. I mean, most kids do. She was beautiful, vibrant, and charismatic. A mother of four who always seemed to be glowing — in control, generous with her love, fun and full of life.

But when I was 15, everything changed. She left. Not just my father. She left us, her children that she said she loved.

At first, she showed up on weekends. A night here and there. But soon even that became too much. Her visits felt obligatory. Forced. Like seeing us was a task to tick off, not a bond to be cherished.

It felt like we were a reminder of the life she didn't want anymore. The one where she had to share. Budget. Compromise. The one where she wasn't the centre of the universe. And in the end, she chose herself.

And nothing — nothing — hurts more than realising someone no longer wants to be your mother. When someone who is biologically programmed to love you abandons you, it creates a pain I'm not sure you ever truly heal from.

Years passed. Then my son was born.

After a decade of silence, she reached out. Told me I had no right to keep her from her grandson. That she deserved to meet him. That she was the victim. That I was cruel for cutting her off.

But she wasn't cut off. She let go.

Still, I allowed her to meet him. I told myself I wouldn't be the person who blocked love from my son's life. Even if it came from someone who had failed me so profoundly.

We met. It was awkward. She was a stranger wearing the face of someone I used to love. Then came the wedding.

I hadn't planned to invite her. How could I? She didn't know me anymore. She hadn't known me for 15 years.

In the end, I made a compromise, for the teenage girl inside me who still missed her mum, and for the memories of when she was a good mother. I invited her to the ceremony only, not the reception.

I thought it was generous. She thought it was offensive.

She said, "I should be honoured at your wedding, as the mother of the bride."

Not invited. Honoured.

And I felt that familiar twist in my chest — the rage, the grief, the disbelief, the disappointment — that maybe, just maybe, after 10 years, she could put me first for this one special day that was mine.

The way she weaponised motherhood like it was a crown she still deserved to wear. No ownership of the pain she caused. No apology. No humility. Just entitlement.

Listen to this episode of But Are You Happy? Story continues after podcast.

But here's the thing no one tells you about estranged mothers: Even when they're gone, they leave behind a version of themselves inside you, a memory.

There are days I hear her in my own voice. Days I catch myself feeling drained as a mum, like I have nothing left to give. And there it is again: That fear.

That maybe I'll become like her. Is this how it started for her? Is this how she felt?

But I won't. I can't. Because I know what it felt like to be left behind.

Because I remember the way I had to perform for her approval. How love felt conditional. How I tiptoed around her moods, afraid that if I wasn't easy, or fun, or happy enough she'd stop loving me.

I think she began leaving us emotionally long before she left physically. And maybe, in some way, she was parenting the only way she ever knew how. Her own mother was cold. Distant. Emotionally absent.

That doesn't excuse it. But it explains it.

So… am I destined to repeat the same patterns?

No. I'm not.

I'm not my mother.

I mother from a place of healing, not survival. I parent with presence, not performance.

And I've learned that in order to show up for my children, I must show up for myself first. That being a good mum doesn't mean giving every part of yourself until there's nothing left. It means checking in, saying no, creating boundaries, filling your own cup.

Because if you don't, you break. Just like she did.

Pain gives us two choices.

We either pass it on to others so we're not the only one who suffered… Or we face it, feel it, and vow to never make anyone else feel the way we did.

I've made my choice. I'm not my mother — and thank God for that.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but remained anonymous for privacy purposes.

Feature Image: Getty.