Relationships are Complicated.

There must be a pithy saying about mothers and daughters that I’m blanking on right now. Whatever it is — insert here. My relationship with my mother is complicated. That’s not to say my relationship with my father isn’t complicated too, but it’s always been easier for me to sit with. My mom and I? Not so much.

There’s a lot of history I won’t go into here, not because it isn’t important, but because the details aren’t what matter most. What you need to know is this: we both have our roles. And something I’ve learned over the years is that my relationship with my mother informs how I show up in most relational dynamics where I feel uncomfortable. When I’m triggered, I revert to old beliefs and old emotions that trace directly back to childhood and to her.

The good news is I’ve also learned to notice when I’m doing that, and to check myself. I’ve learned to challenge those beliefs, to show up differently in ways that bring me closer to my core values instead of further away. I’m confident I could have gotten here eventually, but I also know this: my mother’s willingness to do the hard work with me is what made it possible sooner.

The Rebel and Her Favorite Test Subject

In my family, my role was the rebel. Alexandra Solomon has a great framework about family roles, and “the rebel” fits me to a T. I called people out on their B.S. and I honed that skill on my mother.

You know that nervous feeling you get when you walk past a group of teenagers and one of them locks eyes with you, daring you into an unspoken game of chicken? I was that girl. Not evil, but definitely ready to watch someone squirm. That skill now, imbued with compassion and tenderness, serves me daily in my work. But back then, it was fueled mostly by cortisol. And my mom was the prime target. She played her role, I played mine, and it wasn’t pretty.

In adulthood, I pulled away. I think I needed that distance. But in 2019, I realized I needed support, and for all our complicated history, I knew I could rely on my mom (and my dad) to show up when I asked.

So, in classic “go big or go home” fashion, I went all in. Within three months my husband and I sold our house in Maryland and moved to Indiana. We didn’t just move to the same state, not just the same city, not just the same neighborhood. We bought the house next door to my parents.

Impulsive? Maybe. Reckless? Not quite. Transformational? Absolutely.

Living Next Door Changed Everything

Living next door stripped away the luxury of keeping things surface-level. Suddenly our worlds were intertwined in daily ways that forced me to see, again and again, just how out of alignment I felt around her. Old patterns and old wounds rose up fast.

And yes, they were wounds I once held her entirely responsible for. She played a role, of course. Parents always do. But in my adult life, she has spent decades trying , and failing, to make repairs. We both felt frustrated. On our worst days, resentful.

The turning point came when I realized something I had never fully admitted to myself: I wasn’t inviting her attempts to repair. I was demanding them. Expecting them. And that made me entitled and disempowered in my own healing.

It hit me hard. But it also freed me.

Doing the Work Together

This time, I went to my mom not to demand, but to invite. I asked her to do relational coaching work with me — not to fix me, but to support me as I worked to realign myself.

And she showed up. With an open heart, the way she always has when I ask.

That process changed me. For the first time, I stopped outsourcing my healing. I learned to empower myself, forgive her, and set boundaries that keep me focused on my work. Our relationship didn’t magically become easy or comfortable, but it became clearer.

Now, when I feel discomfort with her, I see it as a signal to check in with myself. What’s my work here? What’s mine to carry, and what’s hers? That shift — from codependence to clarity — changed everything.

The Lineage Behind Us

Of course, none of this started with her. She is a daughter with a mother who did her best but didn't always do what her children needed. My grandmother is a daughter with a mother who did her best but didn't always do what her children needed. And so it goes, for generations. Behind them: war, immigration, hardship, disempowerment. A lineage of relationships, love, survival, sacrifice, and patterns passed down unconsciously.

When I zoom out, I see that my relationship with my mother is not just about her and me. It’s about generations of women doing their best in circumstances that were often unbearably hard. And that recognition lets me hold my mother, and myself, with more empathy.

Imperfect empathy, yes. But enough to keep rewriting the story.

Why This Matters for Others

The work my mother and I have done together informs how I support others now. Whether I’m working with a high-achieving executive stuck in cycles of self-criticism, or a couple locked in conflict, or someone wrestling with their own inherited beliefs, the themes are the same:

• The stories we inherit.

• The roles we play.

• The empowerment that comes when we stop outsourcing and take responsibility for our own work.

Right now I am working on a project with a colleague to help mothers and daughters work on their relationship during pivotal transition stages. I’m so excited to see what comes of it! I believe that when we make space to look at these dynamics together, we can change what gets passed down. Not perfectly, but powerfully.

My mom and I did our work. It wasn’t perfect, and it still isn’t. But it’s ours. And learning that I can do my work, without demanding she do it for me or do hers on my timeline, might be the most freeing lesson of my life.