I’m thirty, and I still don’t have a life of my own—my mum makes every decision for me, and I can’t break free.
Thirty years old. At this age, some people have kids and mortgages, but I’ve got no freedom, no personal space, no voice. Because Mum’s always there. A mum who won’t let go. A mum who controls my every move. And I let her. I know it’s my fault—I never learned to say *no*.
My dad vanished from our lives long before I was born. Mum never spoke of him—just silence, like he never existed. Growing up, I was always ill—bronchitis, measles, whooping cough, chickenpox. I never went to nursery; Mum looked after me at home. We lived with my grandparents, who supported us. Mum was a piano teacher by training, but she only started working when I turned fifteen.
I was her whole world. She lived for me, breathed for me, shielded me from everything. If I fell, I wasn’t allowed outside. If I caught a cold, no ice cream. The smallest thing felt like a catastrophe. One step out of line—panic. And I got used to it.
I finished music school, went to university, became a piano teacher—just like Mum. As a kid, I barely had any friends. Mum wouldn’t let me hang out with anyone—she thought they were all “bad influences.” Instead, we went to the theatre, concerts, read books together. I lived like some heroine from a Victorian novel, minus the balls and suitors.
Not much changed in my twenties. Granddad helped me get a job at a music school. I loved the work, the kids were sweet, Mum was happy—surrounded by proper grown women, no “bad crowd.” I barely had any girlfriends. Two women I tried being friends with drifted away—we couldn’t meet up because Mum didn’t approve.
Five years ago, *he* showed up—a new guitar teacher. Kind, clever, handsome. The perfect leading man. We went on a date. I was happy—until I wasn’t.
First evening—Mum called every ten minutes, worked herself into a state, scared the poor guy off. Second time—I turned my phone off. Came home to an ambulance outside. Mum had phoned hospitals, the police, my colleagues. She was taken away in hysterics. There was no third date. For the first time, I felt angry. I went to stay with a friend. She begged me, *”Don’t go back. If you do, you’ll never break free.”*
I stopped answering Mum’s calls—just texted that I was fine. She showed up at my work, made a scene, ended up in hospital again. I caved—went back. The guilt’s been like a splinter in my heart ever since. My friend pleaded with me to stay. I didn’t listen. And since then, everything’s just… frozen.
Now I’m thirty. Mum and I go to the theatre together, take weekend spa trips, have Sunday roasts. No relationships, no close friends, no freedom. Every time I try to step away, panic sets in. I’m scared. Scared she won’t survive me leaving. That if I finally choose myself—something terrible will happen. And I’ll have to live with that. I’ll be the reason she’s gone.
I *want* to live my own life. But I can’t. I don’t know how to be ruthless. How to choose *me*. I’m terrified I’ll end up like her—lonely, trapped, broken. Sometimes I think there’s just… no way out.
