SHUT UP MOTHER, LET ME GROW UP
- Madhukar Dama
- May 6
- 9 min read
A brutal love letter from the children who were never allowed to become adults.
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SECTION 1: INTRODUCTION — THE MOTHER WHO NEVER LETS GO
She does everything.
She cooks, cleans, worries, prays, cries, sacrifices.
She repeats a thousand times — “It’s all for my child.”
She becomes the whole world for her son or daughter.
And then...
She becomes their cage.
This essay is not an attack.
This is not hate.
This is the necessary pain of truth.
Millions of Indian mothers love too much — and in the process, kill their child’s growth.
They hover, they nag, they decide, they interfere, they fear, they protect, they invade.
This is the voice of the child — 18, 25, 32, 40 years old — still trapped.
Still unable to think clearly.
Still scared to say:
Shut up, mother. Let me grow up.
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SECTION 2: WHEN LOVE BECOMES CONTROL
Not all abuse looks like abuse.
Sometimes, it smells like turmeric rice and warm hugs.
But inside — there’s guilt, fear, silence, and emotional handcuffs.
“You didn’t tell me where you went.”
“You’re not eating well.”
“Who is that girl?”
“I had a bad dream — something will happen.”
“Wear this. Say that. Don’t upset your father. Call me when you reach.”
These don’t feel like control.
But they are.
Because the child is never allowed to develop independent thought, action, or confidence.
Everything is watched. Everything is doubted. Everything is wrapped in “concern.”
And the worst part?
The child starts believing this is love.
That obedience is gratitude.
That silence is respect.
That freedom is selfishness.
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SECTION 3: I AM NOT YOUR PROOF OF SUCCESS
Many mothers don’t live for themselves.
They live through their children.
“My daughter is a doctor.”
“My son is in the US.”
“My child got 99%.”
This is not pride.
This is projection.
A child is not your achievement.
A child is not your second chance.
A child is not your status symbol.
When children are made to “perform” love — through marks, money, marriage — they become actors in a sick play.
They smile for wedding photos.
They do MBA because you cried.
They don’t say no — because your face breaks when they speak the truth.
They live your life.
And they die inside.
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SECTION 4: ENMESHED, ENTANGLED, EXHAUSTED
The mother knows everything.
What the child ate.
When they’ll poop.
Whom they talk to.
What’s in their drawer.
But this is not bonding.
This is entanglement.
There are no walls. No doors. No space.
No “me” — only “we.”
In such homes, the child doesn’t know where they end and the mother begins.
They can’t take decisions.
They panic alone.
They freeze when the mother is upset.
They become emotionally crippled.
And the worst part?
They feel guilty for even wanting space.
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SECTION 5: THE SACRIFICE TRAP
“I gave up my career for you.”
“I never bought sarees so I could send you to tuition.”
“I haven’t slept peacefully in 20 years.”
This is not love.
This is emotional debt creation.
The child is made to feel that their entire existence is a loan.
No child can repay it.
They will study, earn, marry, obey — and still feel like they failed.
Why?
Because the mother never stops sacrificing, never allows herself to be a human.
She weaponizes her pain.
And binds the child with guilt.
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SECTION 6: DELAYED ADULTHOOD, DERAILED IDENTITY
Why do so many Indian adults feel lost, scared, indecisive?
Because their mother never let them fail.
Never let them fight.
Never let them fall.
She filled their lunchbox, checked their college form, whispered answers, chose their friends, blocked their lovers, and controlled their every move.
The result?
An adult child — afraid of life, craving approval, unable to take decisions, constantly comparing, overthinking, people-pleasing, and running from conflict.
They don’t grow up.
They grow old — without clarity, without courage.
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SECTION 7: THE SPOILED, THE GUILTY, THE USELESS
Three kinds of children are born from such motherhood:
1. The Spoiled King — who demands everything and does nothing. Mother pampers him into arrogance. He doesn’t work, doesn’t care, and feels entitled.
2. The Guilty Martyr — who feels they must earn their mother’s love forever. They overachieve, overwork, overcompensate — and still feel like they failed.
3. The Useless Coward — who cannot speak up, cannot take action, cannot stand tall. They keep depending, keep delaying, keep drowning.
And all three blame themselves.
Not knowing — they were never allowed to become anything else.
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SECTION 8: THE DAUGHTER WHO NEVER BECAME A WOMAN
She was taught to obey.
To not argue.
To smile.
To adjust.
To sacrifice.
From periods to pregnancy, her mother never spoke clearly — only warned, scared, or shamed.
She was taught to dress modestly, eat less, laugh softly, and behave like someone’s future wife.
When she wanted to dance, her mother said “what will people think?”
When she wanted to cry, her mother said “strong girls don’t cry.”
When she wanted to marry for love, her mother said “you’ll regret it.”
And so she grew up — well-dressed, well-educated, well-behaved — and completely lost.
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SECTION 9: THE SON WHO NEVER GREW A SPINE
He was the prince.
Fed the best.
Forgiven the worst.
Shielded from reality.
He was not allowed to make tea.
Not asked to wash clothes.
Not expected to clean.
He was told “focus on studies,” while his sisters did housework.
He was praised for sitting.
While his mother ran around him.
But when life hits — job rejections, heartbreak, failure — he collapses.
He has no resilience.
No clarity.
No masculinity beyond ego.
He expects his wife to be a mother.
Because that’s what he grew up with.
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SECTION 10: GRANDMOTHER SYNDROME — IT DOESN’T END
The tragedy doesn’t end with one generation.
A mother who controlled her child… becomes a grandmother who controls the next child too.
And the child who was controlled?
Becomes a controlling parent — repeating the same suffocation, but with newer methods:
Apps, trackers, cameras, tuition, gadgets, vitamins, rules, fear.
Why?
Because they never healed.
They never grew up.
They never broke the cycle.
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SECTION 11: THE PATH TO HEALING — LETTING MOTHERS BE WOMEN AGAIN
To break the cycle, the child must grow up — and let the mother become a woman again.
Not a jailor.
Not a goddess.
Not a victim.
Just a woman — who can laugh, live, dance, fail, date, earn, travel, or simply rest.
Stop putting her on a pedestal.
Stop letting her run your life.
Set boundaries.
Speak the truth.
Stop performing.
Stop pleasing.
The best gift you can give your mother… is your adulthood.
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SECTION 12: CLOSING — DEAR MOTHER, I LOVE YOU, BUT I’M LEAVING
Dear Mother,
I owe you life.
Not servitude.
I thank you for your love.
But I am not your second chance.
Not your investment.
Not your proof.
I love you — but I am not yours.
I belong to life.
So shut up, mother.
Let me fail.
Let me decide.
Let me love.
Let me leave.
Let me grow up.
And if you truly love me,
you’ll let go.
—
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"SHUT UP, AMMA — A HEALING DIALOGUE ON MOTHERHOOD, CONTROL & GROWING UP"
Scene:
A mud-walled verandah in rural Karnataka.
A quiet afternoon.
Birds chirp.
Madhukar pours warm water into three clay cups.
Across him sit Amma (late 50s, anxious, overly involved) and her son Raghav (33, emotionally exhausted, unmarried, still living at home).
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Madhukar (smiling gently):
You both look like you haven’t slept in 30 years.
Amma (defensive):
I sleep fine, Swamiji. But I keep thinking about Raghav. He doesn’t tell me anything. He keeps everything inside. I’m his mother. I have a right to know.
Raghav (tight voice):
You want to know everything, Amma. Even what time I’ll fart.
Amma (shocked):
Don’t talk like that! I carried you in my womb. I raised you without a father. I made every sacrifice.
Madhukar:
That is true. And noble. But let me ask you something, Amma.
Have you ever stopped parenting him?
Amma (confused):
What do you mean? A mother never stops being a mother.
Madhukar:
Ah. And a child then never stops being a child?
Amma (softly):
He is my world.
Raghav:
That’s the problem. I’m your world. I never got to be mine.
---
Madhukar:
When did you last ask him, “What do you want?” — and then shut up and listened?
Amma:
I ask! But he never answers properly. I have to keep asking! If I don’t ask, who will take care of him?
Raghav:
I’m 33. I pay bills. I work. But I still feel like I need to report to you.
I’m always scared to disappoint you.
I don’t even know what I like anymore, Amma.
Because every decision is followed by your:
“But why?”
“But is it safe?”
“But what if something happens?”
---
Amma (tearing up):
So I’m the villain now?
Madhukar (firmly):
You are not a villain. But you are not God either.
You are human.
And humans need to know when to love and when to let go.
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Raghav (softly):
Amma… I’m not angry at your love.
I’m tired of your fear.
You love me like I’m about to die any minute.
You see danger in girls I talk to.
You see ruin in every decision I take.
You don’t support me — you shadow me.
Madhukar:
Amma, do you know what a child becomes when the mother never shuts up?
1. He becomes scared to speak.
2. Or he becomes rude to escape.
3. Or he never leaves your lap — and becomes a 40-year-old child with a beard.
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Amma (crying):
But if I don’t tell him everything, who will?
Who will guide him?
Madhukar:
Life will.
Failure will.
Pain will.
He needs to fall.
He needs to fight.
He needs to grow bones, Amma.
If you always hold his spine, he will never stand up.
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Raghav:
You want me to grow up.
Then you don’t let me make mistakes.
You want me to marry.
But you warn me against every girl.
You say you’ll support me.
But every time I take a different path — your silence becomes guilt.
I’m drowning, Amma.
Not because you hate me.
Because you never shut up.
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Madhukar:
Silence is also a form of love.
Let him cook. Let him struggle. Let him cry.
Watch him fall. Watch him rise. Don’t interfere.
That is the final stage of motherhood.
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Amma (whispers):
But what will I do without him?
Madhukar:
Become a woman again.
You were a woman before you were a mother.
Find your hobbies. Walk. Sing. Work. Laugh. Live.
Let him go — and find yourself.
That is the gift you both deserve.
---
Amma (after long silence):
I didn’t know how much I was holding him back.
I only thought I was protecting.
But maybe… I was protecting myself from emptiness.
Raghav (sits beside her, gently):
I don’t want to push you away.
I want you beside me, not over me.
As a mother, yes.
But also as a person — with boundaries, space, and truth.
---
Madhukar (final words):
Real love is not in holding tightly.
It is in letting go — and smiling when the child flies.
And sometimes,
the deepest love sounds like this:
“Shut up, Amma. Let me grow up.”
And the deepest wisdom replies:
“Okay, kanna. I trust you.”
—
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THE WOMB IS NOT A WHEELCHAIR
A poem for all the mothers who never learned to let go.
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you gave birth
and then
you never stopped.
your hands wiped shit
your voice wiped dreams.
you stitched my uniform
but unstitched my courage.
you packed my lunchbox
but unpacked my spine.
you loved me
so hard
i forgot to breathe.
---
you said:
“my child is everything.”
and then
you made me nothing
but your everything.
i tried to whisper a thought —
you drowned it with
“what will people say?”
i tried to walk alone —
you followed
with snacks, suggestions, shame.
i tried to love a woman —
you screamed her flaws
before learning her name.
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you cried when i hurt
and i hated that
because i could never hurt
without hurting you.
so i stopped feeling.
i stopped trying.
i sat still
and you called that “good boy.”
you praised my obedience
but never asked what i lost for it.
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you built me
like a prison made of ghee, fears, and temple bells.
you called it love.
i called it slow death.
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i don’t hate you, amma.
i love you
with the pain of a thousand dinners.
with the ache of a hundred suppressed sighs.
but listen —
the womb is not a wheelchair.
you carried me once.
you don’t have to keep rolling me around
in your holy guilt cart.
---
stop praying for my peace
while you whisper my every step into control.
stop fasting for my success
while you feast on my doubt.
stop crying
when i speak truth.
it’s not betrayal.
it’s my birth. again.
---
let me
mess up,
fall in love,
make enemies,
go broke,
choose wrong,
cook badly,
cry alone,
come home,
or maybe never.
---
if you must love me —
then shut up.
and let me grow.
because now
i walk
not away from you —
but
finally toward myself.
—
