For years, the relationship between Sarah and her mother had been a complex one. It had become particularly strained as Sarah moved into adulthood and started her own family. However, what troubled Sarah the most was how her mother communicated, specifically her incessant use of the possessive term “my” in conversations. It wasn’t just a quirky habit that made Sarah cringe; it felt more like a manifestation of ownership and control rather than love or affection.
“Hello, my Sarah,” her mother would text at the most unexpected times, as if trying to assert a claim over her daughter’s identity. The use of “my” was so pronounced, it felt like a title rather than a term of endearment. It was as though her mother wanted to remind Sarah of her place in the family hierarchy—even after all these years of distance. Maybe if she were more emotionally stable, it could be interpreted as something innocent, but, for Sarah, it was a constant reminder of the possessiveness that had long colored their relationship.
Then, there were the texts that included her husband. “Hello, my Smith family,” her mother would type, using Sarah’s last name combined with her husband’s. The fact that her mother was addressing both of them as if they were properties to be listed in a portfolio made Sarah’s skin crawl. It was a stark contrast to the life she had worked hard to build, a refuge from the toxic environment of her childhood home.
After years of battling against the psychological weight her mother imposed, Sarah and her husband had decided to go mostly no contact. They limited interactions to only what was necessary, wanting to protect their little family from the emotional turmoil that was bound to follow them whenever Sarah’s mother came around. However, it often seemed that her mother had an uncanny ability to sense when Sarah was doing well or when her own life was otherwise calm. That’s when she would surface, text messages flooding in, prioritized by her own agenda.
“My granddaughter is most important,” her mother would declare, often in nearly every message regarding Sarah’s daughter. It was as if her mother believed she owned her granddaughter just because she was a grandmother. Instead of calling her by her name, the child was a trophy, an extension of her own identity. It made Sarah’s heart sink. If her mother could skip over the child’s name, did she even truly care? To Sarah, it felt as if her mother’s affection was conditional, rooted in her own need for control rather than any genuine connection to her granddaughter.
On the rare occasions Sarah would respond, she’d try to push back against the ownership language. “She’s actually named Emily,” she’d assert, hoping to diminish that sense of possession. But, almost predictably, her mother would brush aside any corrections. “I know, but my granddaughter sounds so much better.” It was exhausting to navigate the conversations, as Sarah often found herself locked in a subtle but endless battle for autonomy and recognition.
Struggling to communicate her frustrations with her husband, Sarah often found herself pondering whether any other daughters experienced a similar dynamic. Was it strange that she felt like a mere vessel for her mother’s claims? Did other women have mothers who wrapped their identities in possessive language? As she scrolled through online forums late at night, searching for a connection, she stumbled upon a thread titled: “Anyone else’s nmom take great pleasure in saying ‘my’ in front of your name???”
The comments flooded in from people who shared eerily similar experiences. Many had moms who defined their existence by ownership, using language that twisted love into a feeling of confinement. They were all seeking some recognition for their individuality while grappling with the emotional baggage of their upbringing. Sarah marveled at the unexpected communal understanding that blossomed in that digital space, but it also highlighted a sad reality: the words her mother used weren’t just hurtful; they were a shared experience among others who had also dealt with narcissistic behaviors.
Reading each response, Sarah felt a mixture of empathy and empowerment. It was comforting to know she wasn’t alone, yet it also solidified the painful truth of her situation. With each “my” her mother used to refer to her and her daughter, it became increasingly clear that this was not just about language but about control—a control that Sarah was determined to reclaim for herself.
In the end, the conflict would remain unresolved, but now Sarah had a broader perspective to help navigate this tumultuous relationship. Rather than forcing change upon her mother, she could adjust her own responses and stand firm in her identity and autonomy.
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