Dear beautiful soul,
Let me start by saying this—if no one else has noticed your pain, I see it.
I hear it in the silence.
I feel it in the ache that lingers after a hard conversation.
I sense it in the way your shoulders drop when you hang up the phone after being dismissed or spoken to like your voice doesn’t matter anymore.
You raised your child with love.
With patience.
With the kind of fierce devotion only a mother can truly understand.
And now, you’re left wondering what went wrong.
Why do they speak to you that way?
Why do they roll their eyes, ignore your advice, and act like you’re in the way?
You gave them everything.
Your time.
Your sleep.
Your dreams.
You carried them—first in your body, and then in your heart.
Always in your heart.
But now, it’s like they’ve forgotten who you are.
They treat strangers better than they treat you.
And no matter how much you try to stay calm, to stay kind, it still feels like you’re not enough.
Or worse—too much.
Too opinionated.
Too old-fashioned.
Too emotional.
You feel like a burden when all you ever wanted was to be a blessing.
And that hurts.
It cuts deeper than most people know.
Because this isn’t just anyone disrespecting you.
This is your child.
The one you rocked to sleep.
The one whose scraped knees you kissed.
The one you stayed up waiting for, praying they got home safe.
And now, they snap at you like your feelings don’t count.
Like you’re just some person who’s always “nagging.”
But you’re not nagging.
You’re loving.
You’re checking in.
You’re still showing up—even when it breaks your heart to do it.
I know you’ve cried behind closed doors.
Cried over words that were too sharp.
Cried over visits that felt cold.
Cried because you can’t understand how love that deep could turn into something that distant.
You wonder if you messed up.
If you said something wrong.
If you loved them too hard or not enough.
You replay old conversations, looking for the moment things started to change.
And that search alone can wear a soul down.
Let me tell you something you need to hear—this is not all your fault.
Children grow up and become their own people.
Sometimes they carry pain they don’t know how to name.
Sometimes they project it onto the one person who’s always been there—you.
You become the safe space for their frustration.
And sadly, that sometimes turns into disrespect.
Not because you did something awful.
But because they know you’ll still love them anyway.
But just because you’ll love them anyway doesn’t mean they have the right to hurt you.
Love isn’t a license for cruelty.
Being a mother doesn’t mean you’re made of steel.
You have feelings.
You have limits.
You have a right to be treated with basic kindness and respect.
Even by your adult child.
Especially by your adult child.
You’re not asking for a parade.
You’re asking to be spoken to like a human being.
With care.
With appreciation.
With honor.
Because whether they admit it or not, they wouldn’t be who they are without you.
You made sacrifices no one ever saw.
You chose them over yourself again and again.
You held it all together even when you were falling apart.
And now, you deserve more than eye-rolls and cold shoulders.
You deserve love that speaks with gentleness.
That listens when you talk.
That doesn’t act like your presence is a problem to be solved.
You’re not the problem.
You’re still the heart of the family.
Still the woman who remembers everyone’s birthdays.
Still the one who prays quietly over your grown children, asking God to protect them.
Even when they hurt you.
Even when they shut you out.
Even when they speak in a tone that makes your chest tighten.
You still love.
And that love is powerful.
But even powerful love has limits.
You can love your child with your whole heart and still say, “This isn’t okay.”
You can love them and still walk away from a conversation that disrespects you.
You can love them and still set boundaries.
Yes, even now.
Yes, even when they’re grown.
You are not too sensitive.
You are not imagining things.
You’re not overreacting.
You’re responding to something very real.
And it’s brave of you to name it.
Brave of you to admit that it hurts.
Brave of you to keep showing up in love even when that love is met with silence or sarcasm.
You might not be able to change them.
But you can change how you protect your peace.
You can choose not to sit in conversations that wound you.
You can choose to say, “I love you, but I will not be spoken to like that.”
That doesn’t make you a bad mom.
That makes you a woman who knows her worth.
And hear me clearly—you still matter.
You matter even when your child makes you feel invisible.
You matter even when they don’t return your calls.
You matter even when their words bruise your heart.
Your love isn’t broken.
It’s just being tested.
And you are still worthy of kindness.
Of patience.
Of respect.
You may be aging, but that doesn’t mean your wisdom has expired.
You may move a little slower, but your value hasn’t diminished.
You may need help sometimes, but you still have so much to give.
So much to share.
So much love to offer.
And if your child can’t see that right now, that’s on them, not you.
Let that truth rest on your heart.
Let it soften the voice in your head that tells you this is somehow your failure.
It isn’t.
It’s just one of those painful turns that life sometimes takes.
But you don’t have to stay in the pain.
You can take care of yourself, too.
You can pour your time into people who appreciate you.
Into friendships that feel light and joyful.
Into moments that make your heart feel seen again.
You are not too old to feel happy.
You are not too far along in life to be respected.
You are not beyond love.
And you don’t have to earn your child’s respect by shrinking yourself.
You don’t have to buy their kindness.
You don’t have to beg for warmth.
You have done more than enough.
And now, you get to honor yourself.
Speak kindly to yourself.
Be gentle with that bruised heart.
Wrap it in truth—because the truth is, you’ve always done the best you could.
Maybe you made some mistakes.
All mothers do.
But your mistakes do not erase your love.
They do not cancel out your care.
They do not give anyone the right to treat you with disrespect.
If your child never says sorry, that’s not a reflection of your worth.
It’s a reflection of what they’re still growing through.
But in the meantime, you don’t have to keep waiting for the apology to start healing.
You can begin that healing right now.
Right here.
By giving yourself permission to let go of what you cannot control.
By focusing on what you need.
By choosing peace.
You are allowed to breathe again.
To laugh again.
To feel joy without guilt.
Even when your heart is carrying disappointment.
Even when your soul feels tired from years of trying to fix what isn’t yours to fix.
You’ve earned rest.
You’ve earned soft mornings and quiet joy.
You’ve earned the kind of peace that comes from knowing you gave your all.
And now, it’s okay to give a little of that love back to yourself.
You are more than someone’s mother.
You are a woman who has lived, loved, and learned.
You are more than the hurt they’ve caused you.
You are still standing.
Still strong.
Still worthy.
If they come around—if they apologize, if they begin to see you again—welcome that with grace, if your heart is ready.
But don’t pause your life waiting for that moment.
Live now.
Love now.
Laugh now.
There are still so many good things ahead.
You are not finished yet.
You are not forgotten.
You are not alone.
And I’m sending this letter to remind you of all that you are—brave, loving, beautiful, and deeply, deeply worthy of respect.