I Started Treating My Narcissistic Mother Like a Daughter—And It Changed Everything

There’s a certain moment in your late twenties where you look at your parents and realize: they are not gods, or superheroes, or eternal authority figures. They are simply people who, just like us, are stumbling through their first attempt at living. For me, that realization hit at 28. And once it did, I decided to flip the script. I began treating my mother—my narcissistic, single-mother-who-raised-me-half-as-child-half-as-companion—like a daughter.

It sounds harsh, I know. But strangely enough, it worked.

Growing Up as Her Support System

I was raised by a single mother. From the outside, it might sound like a badge of resilience. Inside, it felt more like I was her emotional crutch. She was authoritarian when she wanted control, but also quick to play the victim when she needed sympathy. I grew up in this confusing dance: obeying one moment, comforting her the next.

Psychologists call this parentification. Hooper (2007) describes it as children stepping into adult roles too soon, taking responsibility for the parents’ needs. The cost? A distorted sense of self and a lifetime of blurred boundaries.

That was me.

As a teenager, I didn’t even notice how much of my life was shaped by her desires. At 17, I wanted to go to culinary school. Cooking lit me up; it was mine. She said no. She controlled the finances, so the conversation was over before it even started. Instead, I studied journalism—because I can write, and because it sounded respectable. She was proud of that choice, but not because it was mine. She’d tell her colleagues, “I made a rule: one university, one degree. She must finish what she starts.” She wore that rule like a medal of honor, even though it clipped my wings.

I look back now and realize: I wasn’t just her daughter, I was her project.

The Public Stage

One of the things about narcissistic parents is their obsession with how things look to others. When we were out in public, I could see it. If she cracked a joke, her eyes immediately darted around to measure the audience's reaction. Was it funny enough? Did people approve? She didn’t just live in the moment—she performed it.

And because of that, I grew up hyper-aware of my surroundings. I learned to scan a room before opening my mouth. Was it good? Bad? Useful? I still don’t know if that constant awareness is a gift or a curse.

The irony? When she tried to silence me in front of people, thinking it would make her look more in control, she was the one who looked insecure. I never felt embarrassed. I just thought, If you need to make me small to seem big, maybe you were never that tall in the first place.

Leaving Home and Waking Up

It wasn’t until I moved abroad that everything clicked. She cried rivers when I left, even told me she hated me for it. For the first time, I was outside her orbit. And suddenly, I was 25 and realizing: I had spent my entire adulthood waiting for her approval. I let her decide for me, dictate what I could or couldn’t do.

It felt like getting Lasik surgery after years of bad vision. Colors sharper. Shapes clearer. Choices mine.

That’s when I understood the depth of her influence. I wasn’t fully an adult until I was physically far away from her. Until then, I had been living as an extension of her life, not the protagonist of my own.

The Switch at 28

Fast forward to today. At 28, I flipped the dynamic. Instead of reacting like her daughter, I began treating her like my child.

When she offers my help to relatives without asking me first, I gently say: “You need to check with me before you volunteer my time. I have my own life.”
When she tries to impose her opinions on my decisions, I thank her and calmly say: “This is my choice, but I appreciate your input.”

It’s not about fighting anymore. It’s about showing her, through serenity, that her ways don’t have to shake my peace.

This approach actually mirrors what psychologists call detached compassion. According to Campbell, Brunell, & Finkel (2006), narcissists rarely respond well to confrontation, but boundaries—clear, consistent, and calm—can shift family dynamics and protect the non-narcissistic members.

I no longer ask for permission. I inform. Out of respect, not submission.

Choosing Peace

There are people I know who have gone no-contact with parents like mine. And I understand them. In fact, researchers like McBride (Will I Ever Be Good Enough?, 2008) note that for some children of narcissists, distance is the only path to healing.

But for me, that’s not an option—at least not now. Maybe because I see her happy with her partner, which eases the pressure she used to put on me. Maybe because cutting her out would cut out too much of my own story.

So I choose peace instead. I choose to create boundaries not as walls, but as gentle fences. I keep the garden of my life intact without setting fire to hers.

Therapy (Eventually)

I haven’t started therapy yet. Finances are real, and I’m waiting until I can afford it. But that doesn’t mean I’m postponing change. The effort to live differently is already reshaping me.

Because here’s the truth: people don’t change unless they want to. I can’t fix her. I can only fix me. And in choosing serenity, I’ve stopped letting her chaos define my own.

Closing Thought

Sometimes I wonder if this is what adulthood really is—not buying furniture or paying taxes, but finally looking at your parents as human beings. Fallible. In need of guidance sometimes.

Treating my narcissistic mother like a daughter didn’t erase the pain of my upbringing. But it gave me back control. It gave me back peace.

And maybe that’s what growing up is all about: realizing you don’t have to repeat the story you were given. You can write a new one—even if it starts by rewriting your role in the old one.