Peace AND Quiet: A No Contact Mother’s Day Reflection

As Mother’s Day approaches, I’ve been reflecting on my own journey—a path defined by complex choices, hard boundaries, and ultimately, finding my own sovereignty. My story with my mother isn't a Hallmark card, but it is a story of growth and, eventually, a quiet kind of peace.

My story with my mother took a definitive turn when I was a sophomore in high school. Following a weekend emotional conflict with her husband, I woke bright and early on a Monday in October, ready to go to school. I’m wearing a blue button down, jeans, and my brown loafers. Preppy AF, I gotta look cute for the day. I’m doing hair, and prepping for the day when my mom confronts me for taking my brothers’ pencil sharpener from his backpack (I needed one, and it was the only one in the house). She needs somewhere to put her anger at her boyfriend for violating her trust over the weekend, and I say so, “If you’re mad at Louis, you should talk to him. There is no reason to take it out on me.” Obviously, that flippancy will not be tolerated by a black mama, circa 1992…

In a volatile physical confrontation involving a baseball bat, my boombox and words that can’t be unsaid, she told me to get the f**k out of her house. When someone is holding a bat and giving you an ultimatum, you follow directions.

The next day, she showed up at my grandmother’s house with my life packed into trash bags. Moving in with my grandmother was the greatest blessing I ever received, but the aftermath was tumultuous. My mother tried to have me institutionalized; when that failed, she signed me up for therapy to "fix" me because, in her mind, I was the one who was "crazy." It was the best gift she ever gave me. Instead of being "fixed," I was given the space to process what was really happening in our lives. In the end, they suggested the next course of action: family therapy. My mom was uninterested.

By young adulthood, our relationship was "amicable" but hollow. I realized she couldn't be a parent; she could only be a peer. During this period, I attended a conference and met Wally Amos—the "Famous Amos" of the cookie empire.

It was Mother’s Day weekend, and he told me, "You only get one mother, and you’ve got to find your way through this world." I felt the heavy social pressure to be a good daughter, so I bought a card. But what card do you buy when there isn't one that says, "I have been harmed so deeply that I don't feel safe with you"? I sent a blank card with a nice note, just trying to bridge the gap.

A few weeks later, I bumped into my little brother. He asked me about that card. In our family language, "fly ass" meant "dumb ass"—they were offended by the gesture. He accused me of thinking I was "better than them."

I realized then that our values were simply different. I explained that I wasn't going to smoke weed with my kids or around them, and I wasn't into the fact that she had smoked around us as children or continued to smoke with him as an adult. It wasn't about being "better"; it was about moving differently. That lifestyle was a boundary I wasn't willing to ignore.

The definitive moment of rejection came in 2002. I was driving down the street and saw her crossing. I waved a genuine hello. She looked at me and gave me a "sup" head nod—a cold, dismissive acknowledgment from a stranger. That was the day I realized she had "no-contacted" me before I could do it to her.

Fast forward to 2008. We were at City Hall regarding family property. She spent the time cursing me out through the hallways. I remember saying, "We should talk," and her screaming that she had nothing to say to me after eleven years of silence.

It was a dark, angry encounter. But in the ultimate irony of life, that very same night, my boyfriend proposed to me. I was standing in the wreckage of a broken parental relationship while simultaneously stepping into the promise of a new family of my own choosing.

She wasn't invited to my wedding or the births of my children. For years, I carried a distorted fear of her—an imaginary belief that if she knew my address, she’d somehow "steal my house" because of how she had occupied space in my childhood.

Recently, at a family funeral, I found myself sitting just one row behind her. I could smell the "loud" scent of marijuana so strongly that even the officiant commented on it. When I finally realized it was her, I didn't feel fear. I felt... clear. She was smaller than I remembered. She was grayer. She was less powerful. I realized in that moment: I am safe. I am sovereign. I am confident. She no longer had power over me.

Even though we remain no-contact, I decided to send her a gift this year: a functional edible. If she feels the need to use marijuana to get through public events, I wanted to offer her a way to do so with decorum, so she doesn't have to face the shame or public admonishment I witnessed at the funeral. It’s my way of saying, "I see you, and I wish you peace," from a distance.

You Are Not Alone: The Statistics of Estrangement

For a long time, there was a heavy silence around family estrangement. We felt like outliers because the cultural narrative insisted that "blood is thicker than water." However, recent data shows that prioritizing your mental health is a significant reality for millions.

• 1 in 4 Americans: Approximately 27% of U.S. adults report being estranged from a close family member.
• The "Why" Matters: The top reasons cited for estrangement are manipulative behavior (34%), abuse (34%), and lies or betrayal (31%).
• Relational Health: We are seeing a fundamental shift where individuals no longer accept "unquestioned family obligation" at the expense of their safety.

Finding Your "Authentic Show Up"

The point I’m making is that you can be no-contact without anger. You can be no-contact without animosity. I am in a place of acceptance—the realization that the relationship I have with my mother is not going to be what I wished for, or what they show on television.

If you are struggling to find your authentic "show up" this Mother’s Day, here are some pointers:

• Release the Fantasy: Acceptance begins when we stop waiting for the parent to become who we need them to be.
• Prioritize Self-Preservation: No-contact is not a punishment; it is a boundary that protects your nervous system.
• Acknowledge the "Orphan Grief": It is normal to mourn the parent you deserved but didn't have.
• Build Your Village: Find "surrogate" mothers and mentors in your community who can hold space for you with the kindness you need.

Whether you are a mother, grieving a loss, or navigating the pain of estrangement, I hope you find your own version of joy and peace.

Take care of yourselves, and I’ll see you next week.

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