It’s not always obvious. There might not have been shouting, cruelty, or abandonment. Sometimes, the deepest wounds are created in subtle moments. A look of disapproval, a constant shifting of the goalposts, a smile that never quite reached the eyes. And so many women carry the weight of this ache quietly, unsure if it was “bad enough” to matter. But it does.

Growing up with a narcissistic mother often means growing up without emotional safety. It means existing in a space where your feelings were inconvenient, your needs too much, and your individuality quietly erased. You may have learned early on that love was something to be earned by being helpful, beautiful, impressive, obedient. But never fully yourself.

Over time, this dynamic teaches a daughter to mistrust her own reality. If your mother dismissed your sadness, criticised your joy, or turned your anger into a threat, you likely learned to suppress your truth to protect the relationship. You may have become the peacekeeper, the achiever, the invisible one. Roles that kept you emotionally safe, but disconnected from your own needs.

And these patterns don’t just disappear with age. In adulthood, they often morph into chronic self-doubt, people-pleasing, anxiety in close relationships, and an exhausting fear of being “too much.” You might find yourself over-apologising, over-explaining, or silently shrinking in order to maintain harmony. Or perhaps you swing between craving closeness and fearing it. Maybe boundaries feel like rejection. Maybe self-worth feels conditional. Maybe you carry a quiet shame for being angry, for needing rest, for simply existing without performing.

None of this makes you broken. These are not character flaws, they’re adaptations. Strategies your younger self used to survive a relationship that lacked empathy, stability, or real connection. But survival patterns aren’t meant to last forever. They whisper when it’s time to let go.

Healing begins slowly. Often invisibly. Not with dramatic declarations, but with a moment of awareness, the first time you hear yourself say “That wasn’t okay,” and truly believe it. It begins when you start naming what was never named, allowing grief to rise for the version of love you never received, and choosing, again and again, to meet yourself with the care you longed for.

You start to trust your instincts again. You begin to draw lines where there were once only blurred boundaries. You notice when you’re abandoning yourself to keep someone else comfortable, and you pause. You let your truth take up space, even when your nervous system resists it. You get clearer. Softer. Bolder.

And one day, you realise: you are no longer the child in the room trying to earn love. You are the adult now and you get to protect her. You get to build a life where love feels safe, boundaries are honoured, and your worth is no longer negotiable.

This is what it means to reparent yourself. Not by pretending the past didn’t matter, but by letting your future belong to you.

And if you’ve been carrying this wound silently, please know: you’re not alone. There is nothing wrong with you. And the work you’re doing to feel, to untangle, to soften into who you really are – is not just healing. It’s brave. And it’s enough.

Always.