The Hardest Text I Ever Sent: Why I Had to Cut Ties with My Family

My thumb hovered over the "Send" button for forty-five minutes.
The screen of my phone had dimmed and brightened a dozen times. My battery was dying. My hands were shaking so bad I had to set the phone down on the kitchen table.
The message was short. Only three sentences.
But it had taken me thirty years to write them.
“I cannot do this anymore. Please do not contact me. I need space to heal.”
That was it. No long explanations. No accusations. Just a final, quiet boundary.
Sending a breakup text to a lover is painful. But sending a breakup text to a parent? That feels like a crime. It feels like you are violating a natural law.
We are raised on the idea that “Family is everything.” We are told that you have to forgive family because, well, they’re family. We are told to respect our elders even when they disrespect our existence.
For years, I swallowed that pill.
I endured the backhanded compliments at Thanksgiving dinners.
“Oh, you’re wearing that? It makes you look… healthy.”
I endured the guilt trips whenever I tried to live my own life.
“We sacrificed everything for you, and you can’t even visit every weekend?”
I endured the gaslighting. Whenever I tried to confront them about how their words hurt me, I was told I was "too sensitive," "ungrateful," or "imagining things."
I was the family peacemaker. I was the sponge that absorbed all the toxicity so it wouldn't spill over onto anyone else. I thought that if I was just "good enough," or "successful enough," they would finally treat me with kindness instead of criticism.
But the breaking point didn't come with a bang. It came with a whisper.
It was a random Tuesday. My mother called me, screaming about a decision I had made regarding my career. She called me selfish. She brought up mistakes I made when I was twelve. She weaponized my insecurities against me.
And suddenly, the fog lifted.
I realized: This is never going to change.
I was waiting for an apology that was never coming. I was drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.
I hung up the phone. The silence that followed was terrifying.
I typed the text.
The guilt hit me before I even sent it. The voice of society whispered in my ear: “But she’s your mother. You only get one family. How can you be so cruel?”
But then a new voice spoke up. A voice I hadn't heard in a long time. My own.
“What about me? Don’t I deserve peace? Don’t I deserve to not feel anxious every time my phone rings?”
I pressed send.
Then, I did something even harder.
I blocked the number.
The first week was hell. I felt like a limb had been amputated. I kept checking my phone, expecting angry voicemails that couldn't come through. I grieved. Not for the relationship I lost, but for the relationship I never had. I grieved the fantasy of the loving family I wanted so desperately.
But by the second month, something strange happened.
The knot in my stomach—the one that had been there since I was a teenager—started to loosen.
I slept better.
My anxiety attacks stopped.
I started to smile without forcing it.
I realized that toxicity doesn't become "healthy" just because it comes from a relative. Abuse is abuse, even if it shares your last name.
I am not advocating for everyone to leave their families. Family is beautiful when it is safe. But I am writing this for the person holding their phone right now, thumb hovering over the block button, feeling like a monster.
You are not a monster. You are a survivor.
You are allowed to protect your energy.
You are allowed to walk away from people who constantly hurt you.
You are allowed to choose yourself.
I lost a family that day. But for the first time in my life, I found myself.
And that was a trade worth making.