Imagine a mom and her daughter in the kitchen, ready to whip up some cookies. But this is not just any kitchen—Mom’s got that extra edge, still carrying that “do everything right or else” vibe from back when she was a kid. She’s standing over her daughter like a drill sergeant.
“Girl, what you doin’? That flour gotta be level! Ain’t nobody tryna eat some uneven, broke-lookin’ cookies. You tryna embarrass me?” she says, eyeing her daughter like the cookie police.
The daughter, rolling her eyes, mumbles under her breath, “Mom, these are just some cookies. It ain’t that serious, we ain’t running a bakery.” She scoops the flour anyway, half ignoring her mom’s orders.
Mom’s eyes widen, hands on her hips. “Uh-uh, lil’ girl, who do you think you talkin’ to like that? You don’t see me just tryna teach you right?” Then she gets flashbacks to Grandma’s voice from her own childhood. “‘You gotta be perfect! Can’t be messing’ up! What’s wrong with you?’” She shakes her head.
The daughter looks at her mom with a smirk. “Dang, Ma, you really sound like Grandma right now. She made you like this, huh?”
Mom stops and looks at her for a second. “Man, maybe you’re right. I really turned into Grandma for a minute there,” she laughs, realizing just how deep it went. “Alright, fine. Do what you want, make a mess if you gotta. Ain’t nobody lookin’, and they’ll still taste good. I don’t need to be out here actin’ like a drill sergeant over some damn cookie dough.”
The daughter grins wide, suddenly getting wild with the dough, making a cookie shaped like a star, then a lopsided heart. “Oh, it’s on now, Ma! I’m about to make a whole bunch of random shapes. We got stars, blobs, maybe even a little boot.”
Mom shakes her head, laughing. “Aight, don’t be mad when your boot-shaped cookie comes out crispy, though.”
The daughter grins. “As long as it tastes good, who cares?”
Mom finally relaxes, grabbing a handful of dough. “You know what, you’re rightyou right. We don’t have togotta be perfect all the time. Sometimes you just gotta let things be what they are—crispy boots and all.”
The whole exchange is funny because it’s just so relatable. The mom’s got that hood toughness, holding on to that “you gotta do things the right way” mentality that her own mom drilled into her, but in the end, they both realize that all that extra pressure ain’t necessary. It’s just cookies, and sometimes you gotta let go of the past—let the cookies be lopsided, let yourself be imperfect, and just enjoy the damn moment.
Many single mothers carry the weight of being the hero for their families, taking on the role of both provider and nurturer, often without a break or a shoulder to lean on. In deciding to be that hero, they sacrifice so much of themselves. They neglect their own needs, their own dreams, and their own healing, pouring every ounce of energy into their children. They do it out of love, out of necessity, and out of a desire to ensure their kids have what they never did. But sometimes, that heroism comes at a price—a price that goes unnoticed until the cracks start to show.
In the pursuit of being everything, some mothers find comfort in “spoiling” their children with material things, believing that as long as their kids have what they want, they’re doing their job. It’s a way of compensating, of filling the void that comes from not always being emotionally available or having the capacity to be fully present. The gifts, the surprises, the things that glitter—they’re symbols of love, but they’re also often used to mask the unspoken pain. They’re attempts to make up for the absence, to silence the guilt, to hide the exhaustion that comes with being a hero.
But behind the spoiling lies a deeper story—a story of unhealed wounds. Many single mothers were once daughters themselves, daughters who never received the love, validation, or care they needed. Daughters who grew up learning to survive instead of thrive, who were taught that strength meant never showing weakness, that love was transactional. Those unhealed wounds, those scars from a past that was never truly acknowledged, get carried forward into motherhood. And without the time or space to heal, those wounds manifest in ways that affect not just the mother but the children as well.
When a mother spoils her child in place of emotional presence, she’s often trying to do what she thinks is best—to give more than what she had. But the reality is that no amount of material comfort can replace the need for genuine emotional connection. The children, though grateful for the gifts, still feel the absence, still sense the emotional distance. They grow up with the understanding that love is something to be earned through sacrifice, that validation is something that can be bought, and that their emotions aren’t as important as what can be given to them.
The true meaning behind these unhealed wounds is that they are passed down, generation after generation, until someone decides to break the cycle. These wounds are reminders of the times when love was conditional, when survival took precedence over joy, when the hero had no time to be human. They represent the pain of being unseen, of having to be strong without a choice, and of sacrificing self-care in the name of being a “good mother.”
It’s time we acknowledge the cost of being the hero—the toll it takes on mothers who give without ever receiving, who pour out love but never allow themselves to be filled. It’s time to redefine what it means to be a hero, to recognize that being everything to everyone doesn’t mean neglecting oneself. True heroism lies not in spoiling to compensate but in healing oneself, in breaking the cycles of unspoken trauma, and in choosing to love in a way that nurtures both the child and the mother.
Only by facing those unhealed wounds can mothers truly show up for their children, not just with gifts and sacrifices but with a love that is whole, present, and emotionally available. The real heroes are the ones who decide that their own healing is just as important as their children’s happiness, who recognize that they deserve to be cared for, too. Because a mother who has healed can teach her children that love isn’t something you buy, that strength doesn’t mean denying yourself, and that they deserve to be seen, heard, and loved fully—just as they are.
The realization that my pain and anger aren’t without reason, but they also aren’t the full story. I’ve come to understand that the love my mother showed me, even if it was wrapped in gifts and sacrifices, was her way of doing her best. And yet, that love didn’t erase the emotional gaps, the moments where I needed more than just things—I needed her.
I’m not here to villainize her or to paint myself as the victim. I’m here to acknowledge that both can exist: I was spoiled, and I was hurt. I was seen in some ways, and deeply unseen in others. I was loved, but I was also left to carry burdens I didn’t understand.
Now, I’m choosing to speak my truth—not out of spite, not for sympathy, but to break the cycle. To lay it all out, the good, the bad, the messy, and the beautiful. To understand that my mother’s flaws don’t make her unloving, just as my anger doesn’t make me ungrateful. To accept that healing isn’t about blaming or forgiving for the sake of moving on—it’s about understanding where we come from, so we can decide where we’re going.
I’ve come to the point where I no longer need the world to see me as “healed” or “perfect.” I need only to be real, to be honest with myself, and to give myself the space to feel everything I was once told to ignore. Because being a mad Black daughter isn’t just about being angry—it’s about taking back the narrative, choosing to confront what’s been hidden for far too long, and finding peace on my own terms.
And that’s why I speak, why I share. Not for anyone else’s validation, but for my own liberation.
I’ve learned that my story matters, even if it’s imperfect, even if it paints a picture that some may find uncomfortable. I’m done tiptoeing around the truth to protect other people’s feelings. I’m done pretending that just because I had material comforts, my emotional needs didn’t matter. The truth is, I can love my mother and still acknowledge the pain. I can be grateful for the sacrifices she made, while still recognizing the wounds that were left unattended.
It’s about holding space for both—gratitude and grief. The moments of joy and the memories that hurt. I am not a spoiled brat for wanting more than what I was given emotionally. I am not ungrateful for speaking up about the gaps that existed between us. I am human, deserving of love, deserving of care, deserving of more than surface-level comfort disguised as “enough.”
I’ve realized that this isn’t just about my mother and me. It’s about generations of Black daughters who have been told to “be strong,” to “get over it,” to “stay in a child’s place” when all we really wanted was to be heard. It’s about those cycles of pain, passed down like family heirlooms, hidden under layers of pride and resilience. I’m choosing to break that cycle, to confront what’s been swept under the rug, so the next generation doesn’t have to.
This journey isn’t neat. It’s messy, it’s filled with contradictions, and it’s far from over. But I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m learning that healing isn’t a straight line, and sometimes, it’s about making peace with the fact that we may never get all the answers or all the apologies we deserve. And that’s okay, because I’m giving myself the love, the understanding, and the validation I once sought from others.
So, before you call me a spoiled brat, know that I am simply a daughter—mad, healing, loving, and flawed. And I am finally giving myself permission to be all of those things, unapologetically.
I am rewriting the story of what it means to be a daughter in a world that often expects us to stay silent, to endure, to forgive without acknowledgment. I am no longer willing to pretend that my emotions don’t matter, that my voice doesn’t carry weight, or that my pain isn’t valid. I’ve realized that loving myself means demanding more—not just for me, but for all of us who have felt like we had to choose between our truth and our family’s comfort.
This is me honoring the little girl who didn’t understand why love sometimes hurt, and the woman I am now who knows she deserves better. It’s me creating space for both my anger and my compassion, for my mother’s sacrifices and her shortcomings. It’s me extending the grace that I wish I had been given, and in doing so, giving it to myself.
I’ve learned to stop waiting for an apology that may never come. I’ve learned that my worth isn’t tied to how much I can endure in silence or how well I can keep everyone else comfortable. My worth is tied to my voice, my truth, and my willingness to confront what’s real—even when it’s ugly, even when it’s painful.
I know now that my mother did the best she could with what she had, and I can honor that while also being honest about what I needed and didn’t get. And maybe one day, she’ll understand my perspective. Maybe one day, we’ll have a real conversation about it all. But until then, I’m at peace knowing that I’ve chosen to heal in my own way. I’ve chosen to honor my journey, to face my traumas, and to break the silence that’s held so many of us back.
To all the mad daughters out there: you’re not alone. Your anger is valid, your story is powerful, and your healing is yours to claim. No more sweeping things under the rug, no more pretending everything is fine. We deserve to feel, to be heard, and to be whole—beyond the surface, beyond the expectations, beyond the gifts that tried to mask the pain.
This is my truth. This is my journey. And I’m no longer asking for permission to tell it.
I am 25 now, and it’s become clearer than ever how unfair it is for her to expect me to always see her perspective while refusing to understand mine. I’ve spent years trying to view things through her lens, to excuse her actions, and to rationalize the way she treated me. But where is the reciprocity in that? I can no longer be the only one bending, the only one trying to make sense of it all.
It’s exhausting to keep hearing that I don’t understand what she went through when she won’t take a moment to see my pain, my struggles, my side of the story. I know she faced her own hardships, and I’m not dismissing them. But that doesn’t invalidate what I went through. Her sacrifices mattered, but so did my experiences. Her pain was real, but so was mine. And for her to continuously overlook that while expecting me to always be the one to understand—that’s a burden I refuse to carry any longer.
I’m allowed to feel what I feel. I’m allowed to be angry, to be hurt, to want more from the relationship we have. I deserve to be seen, just as I’ve tried to see her all these years. It’s time for my voice to matter just as much as hers. It’s time for her to realize that my emotions are not a challenge to her sacrifices—they’re a part of my truth, and they deserve acknowledgment.
At 25, I’m done minimizing myself for her comfort. I can love her and still hold her accountable. I can respect her journey while demanding that she respect mine. And if she never does, that’s her choice. But I’ll no longer silence my truth to make her feel better. It’s time for both of us to take responsibility for our actions, for our emotions, and for the way we’ve impacted each other. I’m ready to face that truth, whether she is or not.
And if that means I have to distance myself for the sake of my own peace, then so be it. I’ve realized that I cannot keep pouring from an empty cup, constantly trying to heal the wounds that she refuses to acknowledge. It’s exhausting trying to navigate a relationship where my feelings are brushed off, where my perspective is never fully validated. I’m not just her daughter—I’m my own person, with my own experiences, my own truths, and my own pain that deserves recognition.
I’ve spent too much time shrinking myself, biting my tongue, and trying to be the daughter she wanted, the one who doesn’t question, doesn’t challenge, and doesn’t dare to express her hurt. But at 25, I know I have to be true to myself, even if it makes her uncomfortable. I have my own healing to do, and that requires honesty—not just with her, but with myself.
It’s unfair that she wants to hold onto the narrative where she’s always right, where her sacrifices automatically erase any wrongdoing. But I’ve realized that I can’t force her to change, and I can’t force her to see me. All I can do is choose how I move forward. I can choose to speak my truth, to embrace my anger without shame, and to love myself in the ways I once wished she could have loved me.
I know that my worth isn’t defined by her approval. It’s defined by my ability to stand up for myself, to confront the uncomfortable truths, and to set boundaries that protect my peace. I’m done trying to be perfect for someone who can’t see beyond her own pain to acknowledge mine. I’m done letting her version of the story be the only one that matters.
So, I’m taking back my power, my voice, and my story. I’m giving myself permission to feel everything I was taught to suppress. I’m choosing to heal in my own way, even if she doesn’t understand it, and even if she never does. I’m learning to forgive myself for the times I blamed myself, to forgive her for the times she couldn’t do better, and to let go of the need for validation that I once desperately sought from her.
Because at the end of the day, I know who I am. I know the love I have to offer, the strength I carry, and the courage it takes to face my truth. And that is more than enough. .
When a mother has unhealed wounds and unresolved emotions, she may unintentionally lash out in ways that deeply hurt her daughter. She might say things that sting, things like, “Maybe if you left, it’d be better for everyone.” It’s like she’s pushing you away before you get a chance to leave her, a defense mechanism to avoid facing her own fears of rejection or failure. Those words stick, making you feel like your presence is more of a burden than a blessing, and it cuts deep, leaving you questioning your own worth.
It’s not just in what she says—it’s also in what she does (or doesn’t do). The small, everyday actions can add up, and they’re often the ones that hurt the most. When she chooses not to cook the things she knows you enjoy, it feels like she’s disregarding your needs. You love veggies and fresh fruits, and the fridge is always stocked with eggs, pork, and cheese—the things she likes, not you. It’s like she’s saying your preferences don’t matter, and it leaves you feeling unseen. It’s not just about food; it’s about the lack of care and consideration. It’s like every time you open the fridge and see nothing there for you, you’re reminded of the emotional distance.
Then there’s the car. She takes your car, leaves for hours, and comes back without thinking about whether you’ll have anything to eat. It’s a kind of neglect that’s not as obvious to others, but it’s there. It’s her saying, “I’m doing what I want, and your needs come second.” It leaves you feeling overlooked, like you’re not important enough to be thought of, even in these small ways. It’s not that you’re expecting lavish gestures or big sacrifices—it’s the little things that make you feel cared for, like her remembering to get you some fresh fruit or leaving enough groceries so you can cook what you like.
These actions and words, though they may seem minor on the surface, carry a lot of weight. They’re painful reminders that maybe, in her eyes, you’re not worth the effort, and that feeling can make the bond between you feel more like a struggle than a source of love and support. It’s about more than just the food in the fridge or the words said in frustration—it’s about feeling valued, seen, and loved, even in the little things. And when that’s missing, it can make you feel like you’re not really at home, even when you’re supposed to be.
In the midst of all this, you find yourself grappling with the weight of these unspoken truths. It’s a struggle that runs deeper than just meals or a car—it’s about connection and understanding. Each time your mom hurls those hurtful comments, you feel a piece of yourself unravel, as if you’re being pushed further away from the very person who’s supposed to lift you up. You wonder if maybe leaving would indeed be a blessing, not just for you but for her too. It feels like the only way to escape the emotional rollercoaster is to put some distance between you and the pain.
But then there’s that flicker of hope, that glimmer of love that’s buried beneath the hurt. You remember the times when she did make your favorite meals, the laughter you shared over the dinner table, the moments that made you feel like you belonged. You want to believe there’s still a chance to heal this fractured relationship, but the road ahead feels daunting.
So, you decide to confront the issue. You sit her down, heart racing, and say, “Mom, can we talk?” You tell her how her words cut deep, how it hurts when you open the fridge and see nothing but the stuff you don’t like. You share that the car and empty fridge make you feel invisible, and that maybe, just maybe, it’s time for both of you to start mending what’s been broken.
As you speak, you see the walls she’s built start to crack just a little. It’s not easy, and it’s definitely not perfect, but you’re planting the seeds of understanding. “I know we both have our wounds, but I want us to be able to talk about what’s going on, to not sweep it under the rug anymore. I don’t want to feel like leaving is the only way to find peace,” you say, pouring out your heart.
With every word, it’s like you’re reaching for her, trying to bridge the gap that has grown between you. And as you finish, you see her eyes soften. “I didn’t realize how much this was affecting you,” she admits, her voice shaky. “I’m sorry. I guess I thought I was just trying to take care of things my way, but I see now it’s not working for you.”
It’s a small but powerful moment of vulnerability. In that exchange, you both begin to peel back the layers of pain that have built up over time. The journey to healing won’t be instantaneous, but you’ve both taken that first step together. And who knows? Maybe there’s a chance to reclaim those joyful moments in the kitchen, to create meals that reflect both of your tastes, and to redefine what home feels like.
In the end, it’s about breaking the cycle, embracing the imperfections, and allowing each other to be seen for who you really are. You’re not just a daughter; you’re a woman with your own needs, feelings, and dreams. And your mom? She’s a woman too—flawed and human—still figuring out how to love while navigating her own pain. Together, you can forge a new path, one that’s filled with understanding, compassion, and a whole lot more love, even if it comes with some crispy cookies along the way.
Sincerely, a mad Black daughter—unapologetic, healing, and free.