I Cut Off My Mother. Now I’m Becoming Her

I stopped contacting my mother to avoid repeating her problematic behavior with my daughter

For Shanetta McDonald, raising a toddler has shown her parallels between her actions and those of her estranged mother

The day I lost my shit it was unavoidable. I zoomed throughout my house for most of the day, rapid-fire responding to work emails, scrambling to find a quiet and slightly less toy-cluttered corner for client video calls, keeping an eye on my daughter who moved locations in the blink of an eye, while trying not to trip over our antsy goldendoodle who craved attention as much as he craved treats. By dark, my body still buzzed like an electrical discharge from the dozens of tasks I had completed in less than ten hours.

Brown rice and chicken would send me over the edge. A surprise to both me and my daughter, who, while not totally innocent in my breakdown, was the most naive participant. “GENEVIEVE,” I shrieked, my blood boiling as I took in the mess. The dinner I had spent thirty minutes preparing was now splattered across the kitchen floor as our dog licked up scraps. My daughter giggled, unaware that my high-pitched tone and bulging eyes weren’t part of a game. She was simply being a toddler, rejecting food she didn’t want. A situation my younger self knew far too well.

I dropped to my knees to pick up the sticky rice, creating space between my rational self, the version that knew this was my daughter exercising autonomy, and my rageful self, the version pissed that I was cleaning up her mess while being laughed at. There’s no way I would’ve gotten away with this as a kid, I thought.

Dinner was just the beginning. Bathtime was worse. My daughter protested, then pushed and fought her way out of the tub, a calming ritual for us on any other day. With exasperation, I whisked my daughter out of the tub as her screams trailed us to her bedroom. The sooner she went to bed, the sooner I could breathe. And maybe self-soothe with a glass of wine.

Mid-scream, my partner walked in from work, wide-eyed with concern. “She’s fine!” I barked at him. It was rare for our daughter to have meltdowns. And seeing his fiancé put a diaper and onesie on with such speed must’ve shocked him.

As my fingers dragged the zipper up to her face, I stopped. Tears poured down her soft, fluffy cheeks. I broke into sobs. “I’m so sorry, baby,” I sobbed, cradling her. Empty apologies had been plentiful in my household growing up, but I’d vowed to be different. I snuggled her tight before bed, guilt swarming me for not having more patience, more compassion for such a helpless little human. Then fear took over. Was I becoming the woman I had worked so hard to leave behind?

The last time I heard my mother’s voice was the day my OB-GYN confirmed my pregnancy. Filled with joy, I bounced out of the doctor’s office, only to click play on a voicemail from my mother going off. The “space” I had asked for months prior wasn’t honored. And in turn, I blocked her on every possible online channel where she could reach me. This infuriated her.

Even in my mid-thirties, her piercing tone and cutthroat anger still sent shockwaves through me. I tried to untangle my mother’s intention in the last two minutes of our dying connection. I fast forwarded the message, hoping her tone would soften, searching for a glimmer of compassion from the woman who physically and emotionally harmed me. I went from blissfully imagining my daughter growing inside of me, to feeling dysregulated, stuck in fight or flight from the woman who created me. If I were to maintain any peace during my pregnancy, I had to cut her off.

Instead of baby proofing while pregnant, I angry-mommy-proofed. I went into overdrive to rid myself of every toxic parenting tool my mother had used on me. I would never yell at my child. I would never force her to eat her food or hug anyone she didn’t want to. I would never apologize for my behavior and then repeat the same mistake. I would never make her responsible for my feelings and I would never invalidate her feelings, even during a meltdown. And I would never, under any circumstances, hit her. That I would stand by until the day I died.

Looking back, fragments of my mother—both good and bad—lived inside of me long before I removed her imprint from every fiber of my being. Her Sagittarius sun energy showed up in my adventurous personality, feeding off of my airy Gemini rising. As a kid, I’d roll my eyes when people called my mom “fun,” until I realized I was fun too. Like her.

I got her gift of gab and ability to charm anyone in arm’s reach. But I fought off her tendency toward negativity and gossip. I loved those close to me and protected them fiercely. Talking bad about anyone who I loved was low vibrational. And yet, I ignored that I was repeating how my mother showed up in relationships: control, control, and control some more.

When I hear people discuss nature vs. nurture, I strain to separate the two. What part is nature and what part is nurture if they both came from the same woman? And how do I reclaim my identity when so much of me is biologically and environmentally shaped by her words, moods, and the world she built around me, attached to someone who I do not want to be?

The morning after the meltdown my daughter and I had, I lay in bed waiting to hear her cry, ready to jump into action. I fantasized about marching into therapy that week to confess how terrible of a mother I was because I’d yelled at my toddler. My therapist would validate my negative self-talk and hand me my punishment, whatever that would be.

Then, I heard the soft, gentle words, “You are not your mother.” I turned to my left, looking at my partner who was still dead asleep. The words echoed again in my head. They weren’t his. They weren’t mine. They were from an old therapist I saw during my pregnancy, when I failed the mental health questionnaire my doctor gave me. “It’s better that we get you some help now, before the baby comes,” he’d told me.

Anxiety ran circles around me back then, making me ruminate on every possible way to perfect the world before my baby girl arrived. I found a random therapist who listened to me rant about breaking generational curses, healing my trauma, not controlling my partner, staying positive, never wanting to hit my kid, building wealth and on, and on and on. “I’m afraid I’ll be like my mother,” I finally admitted, sobbing.

“But you are not your mother,” she said. From the first few minutes of our first and last session, I knew this Black therapist with a straightforward, firm demeanor said what she meant and meant what she said. I trusted her immediately. And I believed her. I was not my mother. I never would be.

Lying in bed, waiting for my daughter to summon me, I felt that same clarity, confidence, and permission to be imperfect. I would mother with intention and allow myself to fumble. That meant letting my kid watch too much TV when I was exhausted, accidentally raising my voice when my fuse was short, bribing her with dessert to eat dinner, or waiting two weeks to wash her hair, just to avoid the inevitable screams. A better mother wasn’t one who never made mistakes. It was one who acknowledged them and worked to be better.

Mothering as a recovering perfectionist isn’t easy. At first I thought distance alone, and doing everything differently, would be enough to break the cycle. But perfectionism is just another kind of fear. Therapy helps. Grace helps. They keep me focused on who I am instead of who I fear becoming. It’s a dizzying dance I do every day.

After all, who says breaking cycles means never stepping in the same footprints?

Shanetta McDonald is a writer, publicist, and somatic life coach. Her essays have been featured in Allure, InStyle, Essence, Refinery29, and Well+Good. Through her agency and coaching practice, she helps women, BIPOC, and queer leaders share their stories and take up space with confidence.