When Mother’s Day Hurts: A Reflection from an Alienated Mom. I am a mother experiencing parental alienation, where my daughter has been unjustly influenced to reject me by her other parent.

Today, I sat quietly with Aspen and watched high school students practicing for their graduation next week, my heart breaking with every laugh I heard. I have so much love for my daughter, but I have nowhere to put it. It just lives in me, heavy and aching. I don’t know how to carry this much love and this much loss at the same time. Like any parent, my love for my child runs deep. I long for the chance to embrace her, see her smile, and hear her voice again.

I dream of witnessing the woman she’s become at 39 and being there to support, encourage, and share in her life. I last saw her in 2011; it has been nearly a decade since we last spoke.

The silence is heartbreaking. My world feels suspended in time, and tears well up whenever thoughts of my daughter surface.

To make it through, I tuck the pain away—quietly, deeply.

Still, grief finds its way to the surface, sometimes crashing over me like a relentless tide, pulling me into silence and shadow.

I carry a truth that anchors me: my daughter is deeply loved.

But that truth feels twisted by distance, invisible to her, and misunderstood by others.

Everything I did with love and good intent was turned upside down—reframed as harmful or wrong.

The story of our past has been rewritten to cast me as a failure, stripping away any trace of compassion, care, or nurturing. Her father won her over with gifts and manipulation, while my efforts were dismissed or condemned. In his eyes, I could never do anything right.

Memories blur like fading dreams—sometimes I wonder if they were ever real.

In sleep, I find myself with Wendy, but she remains just out of reach even there. I was a loving mother. So why does it all feel erased?

Dennis chipped away at my confidence until self-doubt took its place.

I ache to return to the sacred role of “Mom,” but that door feels locked, far beyond my reach.

I’m often invited to breakfasts, dinners, barbecues, and gatherings where conversations naturally turn to children.

Then comes the question I dread: “Where’s your daughter these days? What’s she doing in California?”

My throat tightens, and it’s hard to breathe, let alone answer. I carry a version of my daughter within me, held in a time when love and laughter came easily, and her eyes reflected nothing but affection. That memory comforts and haunts me.

But now, the question has been asked—and it changes everything.

In those moments, I feel my self-assurance waver. I find myself explaining that my daughter has been estranged from me, the result of harmful influences and misrepresentation by her father. I haven’t seen her in years, which has left a lasting wound.

I look around, unsure if others truly understand—or if they’re quietly questioning my story. I often need to defend myself further, to make them see the truth.

For me, Mother’s Day brings more heartache than celebration. If you know even a piece of my story, I hope you’ll meet me with compassion instead of assumptions. Parental alienation is a painful, misunderstood reality—and unless you’ve walked that road yourself, it’s hard to know what it takes to survive it truly. It can affect any loving parent, regardless of gender. Few can truly understand how a good parent, full of love and intention, can be twisted into a shadow of themselves in their child’s eyes. Lies can replace truth, and a shared history can be rewritten to suit a destructive narrative. It’s a slow unraveling, where one parent pours bitterness into the child, reshaping the child’s reality until the bond with the other parent disappears.

This is the quiet cruelty of alienation—when a child is made to carry wounds that aren’t their own, and love is replaced by silence.

Children often absorb the alienating parent’s emotions as if they were their own. Over time, an unhealthy dynamic becomes their new normal. When one parent consistently demeans, misrepresents, or twists the truth about the other, it creates confusion and emotional harm.

Children don’t naturally reject a loving parent—they’re taught to.

Their vulnerability is greatest when caught between a parent’s unresolved bitterness or untreated mental health struggles. Alienated children often can’t recognize what’s happening to them because they deeply trust and love the parent they’re aligned with.

When one parent repeatedly shares negative stories about the other parent—in this case, me, the mother—those stories begin to feel real.

They’re tied to emotions, familiar places, and fragments of truth, and they can become dangerously distorted over time.

The child picks up on the alienating parent’s intense emotions—anger, anxiety, bitterness, even hatred—and internalizes the unspoken pressure to choose sides.

They’re often questioned about the other parent and put in the impossible position of loyalty tests. Wanting to protect the parent they see as emotionally fragile or volatile, the child begins to pull away from the other parent, not because of actual harm, but to avoid upsetting the parent they fear disappointing.

Over time, they form a powerful bond with the alienating parent, rooted not in safety or stability, but in emotional survival. They may even lie or act out against the rejected parent, believing it’s necessary to protect the one they feel they must please. Tragically, this dynamic creates a deep attachment to the person causing the harm.

If you’re an alienated parent and this story feels familiar, know this: You are not alone.

You are love—and the light that continues to glow within your child, even when they can’t recognize it right now.

Hold steady in that truth. Your child may not yet understand the reality they’re living in, but they need you to be the one who does. Stay patient, stay strong, and stay compassionate.

That’s what I cling to, even on the hardest days.

The most powerful gift you can offer your child is a whole, grounded, and well-being version of yourself. Prioritize your healing because one day, when your child begins to see the truth and reaches out, they’ll need you to be ready.

Taking care of yourself isn’t selfish—it’s essential.

Nourish your body, move it often, and find moments of peace, whether through mindfulness, time in nature, or a passion that lifts you out of the pain.

For me, I hold on to hope, no matter what. I know I am not alone in this, even when it feels that way.