I’m a Side Character in Someone Else’s Story
Or at least that’s what I was led to believe.
“Why are you mad at me?”
“Why are you in such a bad mood? Say something positive!”
“I’m a great mom, you know. I did a good job raising you.”
I have a complicated relationship with my mother, and ever since I can remember, I have always been viewed as a side character in her story. I was never the star of my own life but instead existed to support her in whatever she decided to do and make her feel like a great mother in the process. And even though I’m an adult now, this view of myself still lingers. It’s like I’m caught between two worlds — the person I am inside and the supporting role that my mother cast me into. And more often than I’d like to admit, my supporting role has beaten my own individuality into submission.
I have mirrored my relationship with my mother countless times. All of my romantic relationships and friendships have followed a similar pattern, although thankfully not to the same degree. I put their needs above my own and view my own needs as burdensome, something for me to endure alone. Asking for help is a no-go, something to be ashamed of.
But despite all of this, I refuse to give up. I refuse to be defined by someone else’s story anymore. Instead, I am writing my own story — one that is full of strength, resilience, and hope. And if you’re reading this, then maybe you’re ready to write your own story too.
Growing Up
I grew up in an environment where everyone’s needs but my mothers were invalidated. This led me to instinctively put her needs above my own, and everyone else’s, because if she was cared for and catered to, the entire household was more harmonious as a result. She encouraged the behaviors she liked — praising her, comforting her — and vice versa.
My mother’s masterpiece has always been painting herself as the victim.
The turning point was after my parents’ inevitable divorce. My older brother stayed with my father, and I was whisked off by my mother to live with her at my uncle’s house. And so began the triangulation process, in which she began telling me things that no young child should have to hear — details about her marriage with my father, and how it was all his fault that they were separating; insight into other family members’ feelings on the divorce, and how cruel they were in thinking badly of my mother; and finally, when my parents began the heavy process of attending court in order to determine who would get custody of me, she began telling me what people would say in the courtroom, the people who were trying to keep us apart, how despicable they were.
If they weren’t on her side, they were against us both— that was how she painted it, anyway, ensuring that I would side with her as well. After all, I wasn’t hearing the other side of the story, because the rest of my family were mature enough to keep me out of the conversation. My mother’s masterpiece has always been painting herself as the victim.
All of these things occurred when I was just ten years old.
Childhood Shadows
It all came to a head after I joined the military. While it was incredibly difficult, somehow, I made it through and learned a lot of important lessons along the way. Shortly after enlisting, I was shipped up to Anchorage, Alaska for my first assignment. It was a lovely experience — it’s where I met many lifelong friends and my husband, and there is no place quite like it.
It’s also where I first put my foot down with my mother, and established — gasp — a boundary.
After arriving in Alaska, my mother was concerned for me, unable to be physically there for me. I will say that I missed her terribly and I was thankful for her thinking of me, a thousand miles away deep in the snow. She helped me find somewhere to eat using Google Maps, since I had no visibility outside and no car, and we talked for hours every day.
Without her, I probably would have broken down. I will give credit where it’s due.
However, the phone calls started to become an expected routine. After a while it no longer resembled a comfort for me, but rather an obligation, a duty, to my mother. I expressed my concern to a new friend, that I couldn’t hang out with them several times because my mother wanted to talk on the phone at the same.
I remember when my friend (now my husband) gave me the earth-shattering advice that seems so obvious in hindsight.
“You don’t have to talk to your mom every day if you don’t want to.”
Initially, I disagreed with him. I don’t? What do you mean? Of course I do—
But wait, why? He planted the seed of doubt that grew and allowed me to finally blossom.
I gathered the courage to let my mom know that I didn’t want to talk to her every day. I knew part of her would probably be upset, but overall I assumed she would be fine with it. After all, I was a grown up now, and off on my own.
However, I was mistaken. My attempt at setting this boundary incited her. She was devastated — she started crying while on the phone with me, and asked, “Why are you doing this to me?”
Suffice to say I felt awful, and part of me wanted to take it back. But I wanted more time to make friends and spend time at work, cultivating a life for myself. So miraculously I stuck to my guns and I would only speak to my mother on the phone maybe once a week, or once a month if I got busy.
To this day, nearly ten years later, she still brings that incident up and how it hurt her terribly.
Changing the Narrative
It has taken work to get to the point I am at. It hasn’t been easy, and I still have a lot of room for growth from here.
The first step towards independence from these main character types is to allow yourself to take center stage every now and then. Focus on yourself, your needs, your priorities. I made the mistake for far too long of constantly putting my mother’s needs above my own. But this wasn’t on accident — I was raised and trained to do this. Whether or not she did it intentionally, the resounding message I received as a child was to set my needs aside for other people. And it has shown.
But I’m working on breaking free from this mindset and creating my own story — one where I’m the protagonist, not the supporting character.
After years of feeling invisible and not worthy of anyone’s time or effort, I’m no longer willing to take a backseat in my own life. Striving for autonomy and taking responsibility for my own happiness is empowering, even if progress is slow at times. I realise now that by honouring myself and determining what I want from life, I reclaim agency over how others view of me — and start writing the narrative of my own life.
If you’re struggling in the same scenario I was, feeling neglected and misunderstood, please know that you are not alone. There is hope for us, together. Although it may seem easier said than done, it’s important to take ownership of your narrative — because if you don’t, nobody else will.
It may take a lot of time and effort to restore balance and security in our lives, but small changes can help us re-shape our relationship with our mothers and outgrow their narcissistic behavior. There’s no one-size-fits-all solution but know that what you’re going through is valid. You are loved and supported.
Even if you don’t feel like you’re in control of your story yet, remember that it isn’t finished — taking these baby steps towards reclaiming it will eventually lead to realizing a future free of codependency. If these feelings resonate with you or someone you know, please reach out and take comfort in knowing that you aren’t alone.
What are some of the struggles you have faced? Have you ever felt like you weren’t in control of your own narrative?
