There’s something I need to get off my chest, something that’s been eating me alive for years. It started as a whisper, a tiny voice in my head, and now it’s a roar. I keep replaying it, every single decision, every conversation, every moment leading up to… well, to that. It all began with the best intentions, or so I thought. The day I learned that boundaries can be kind.
My mother was always… a lot. Not in a bad way, not overtly manipulative, but her needs were a gravitational pull. She’d been chronically ill for as long as I could remember – various ailments, none life-threatening, but all demanding constant attention. Doctors called it a complex mix of fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue, and general ‘fragility.’ Her world, and by extension, mine, revolved around her comfort, her appointments, her emotional state. I cancelled dates, missed promotions, and sacrificed friendships because “Mom needs me.” It wasn’t an ask; it was an unspoken law. I loved her, fiercely, but I was also drowning.
Then he came into my life. He was different. He saw the toll it was taking on me. He saw the exhaustion etched around my eyes, the way I flinched every time my phone rang. He listened patiently to my guilt-ridden explanations of why I couldn’t commit to a weekend getaway, why I had to leave early from his family dinner, why I couldn’t just relax.
One evening, after another frantic call from her about a phantom ache, I hung up, tears streaming down my face. “I can’t do this anymore,” I sobbed, the words tasting like ash. “I love her, but I’m disappearing. I don’t even know who I am without her needs dictating my every move.” He held me tight, stroking my hair. Then he said it. “You need to set boundaries. It’s not cruel. It’s kind.”
An AI-generated image of Jamie Lee Curtis with full glam. | Source: Grok
Kind? The word felt like a betrayal. How could putting distance between myself and my ailing mother be kind? It sounded selfish. He explained. Kindness to myself, yes. But also, kindness to her. Enabling her complete dependence wasn’t helping her find strength or independence. It was a cycle we both needed to break. He talked about tough love, about allowing her to take some responsibility, to empower her. He made me see that if I didn’t save myself, there’d be nothing left of me to give. He convinced me that for the first time, I needed to protect my own well-being.
So, I started small. I let a call go to voicemail. I hired a part-time caregiver for a few hours a week, insisting she needed more structured support than I, an amateur, could provide. I stopped dropping everything to drive an hour for every sniffle. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing my chest. Every time I said no, or even just delayed a response, I felt like the worst daughter on the planet. My mother’s voice on the phone grew weaker, more distant. She said she understood, but her tone was a mournful dirge. Was this what kindness felt like? This aching emptiness?
I plunged into my own life. I took that promotion. I went on that long-delayed trip. I started feeling… lighter. Like I could finally breathe. The calls from her became less frequent, then stopped almost entirely. The caregiver reported she was managing, though often quiet. I told myself it was working. She was finding her footing, just as he’d said she would. I was so proud of myself for finally being strong enough to set those boundaries. I was finally being kind – to both of us.
Then the call came. Not from her, but from the caregiver. My mother hadn’t woken up that morning. A quiet, peaceful passing, they said. Her heart just… stopped.
Whoopi Goldberg at the AMI – Alexandre Mattiussi Menswear Fall-Winter 2025/2026 show as part of Paris Fashion Week on January 22, 2025, in France. | Source: Getty Images
The funeral was a blur of platitudes and regret. My heart ached, but beneath the grief was a strange sense of… liberation. A dark, shameful corner of my soul whispered that I was finally free. I hated myself for it, but it was there. I promised myself I’d honor her memory by living the full, unburdened life she’d never had.
A few weeks later, I was clearing out her house, sorting through a lifetime of accumulated memories. In her bedside drawer, beneath an old photo album, I found a small, locked box. It wasn’t hidden, exactly, but it was out of sight, easy to miss. The key was tucked under a loose floorboard nearby. Inside, nestled among old letters and a single dried flower, was a medical report. It wasn’t the reports I was familiar with, the ones about fibromyalgia and fatigue. This one was dated just three months before she died.
It detailed a diagnosis of rapidly progressing frontotemporal dementia. An aggressive, cruel disease that would have slowly, irrevocably, stolen her mind, her ability to care for herself, her very essence. It explained her increasing dependency, her strange demands, her inability to articulate her fears. It explained her complex physical symptoms as manifestations of her growing distress, her panic as her world fragmented. She had known. She had kept it from me. The report stated a prognosis of six months, at most.
THREE MONTHS.
I remember the exact day I started setting those boundaries. The day I decided to be “kind” to myself, to step back, to let her learn to cope. It was almost to the day, three months before she died.
She hadn’t been demanding attention out of habit or neediness. She hadn’t been enabling herself in a cycle of dependence. SHE WAS TERRIFIED. SHE WAS DESPERATE TO SPEND EVERY LAST MOMENT WITH ME BEFORE SHE FORGOT MY FACE, BEFORE SHE WAS GONE. And I… I told her to get strong. I told her to cope. I told her I needed boundaries.
Whoopi Goldberg at the “Billy Joel: And So It Goes” opening night premiere on June 4, 2025, in New York. | Source: Getty Images
The silence that followed my retreat wasn’t her finding her footing. It was her fading away, alone. I didn’t enable her; I was her anchor. And I cut the rope.
The day I learned that boundaries can be kind… I used that “kindness” to abandon my mother in her darkest, most terrifying hour. And the worst part? She let me. She never told me. She loved me so much, she let me have my freedom, even as she was losing everything. I didn’t just set boundaries; I built a wall. And behind that wall, she died. Alone. My kindness was her demise. And I have to live with that forever.
