As a therapist, I talk a lot about parental alienation (PA) and its impact on families. But today, I’m sharing something more personal—my own experience with PA. This isn’t just a clinical concept to me. It’s something I’ve lived through, and it’s part of the reason I’m so passionate about advocating for kids’ rights to have healthy, loving relationships with both parents.
In my work, I’ve seen how destructive PA can be. It’s heartbreaking to witness how children can become caught in the middle of a toxic situation, forced to choose sides between two parents. That’s why I want to share my story—so others can see they aren’t alone and that healing is possible, no matter how difficult it may seem.
If you’re navigating something similar, or just want to understand more, read below to learn more about my personal experience with parental alienation and why it’s shaped my passion for supporting kids and families.
Breaking the Cycle: My Story
The Conflict of Two Worlds
“I want to share my story through written words—not just to unload memories, but to finally let the truth shine through for myself, my family, and anyone who might understand. My childhood was built on conflicting messages and an overwhelming sense of guilt that I couldn’t even begin to understand at the time.
My mother always portrayed herself as the epitome of righteousness—a devout Christian, a pillar of the church, and someone everyone saw as pure and godly. To her church friends and neighbors, she was flawless: always tithing, teaching Sunday school, and leading by example. And for a while as a small child, even I bought it; I believed she was a literal angel. But behind closed doors, that perfection was nothing more than a mask for judgment, manipulation, and parental alienation.
Before I even started elementary school, she made sure I had a favorite shirt—a plain white shirt emblazoned with bold blue letters that read, ‘Don’t Do Drugs’. Over and over, she drilled into me that drugs, drinking, and smoking were the worst of evils because she was a Christian. And yet, in the same breath, she would remind me that my father—who drank and smoked—was sinful, disgusting, and unworthy. I loved my dad, so I was torn apart by these conflicting messages. Every time I visited him on weekends, she insisted I wear that shirt, an unspoken directive meant to remind him of his failings—and it filled me with terror for his safety. I pleaded with him to stop drinking and smoking, and remarkably, he did change. But that resolution at dad’s wasn’t enough to heal the chaos at home.
At home, things were never peaceful. With drinking and smoking seemingly resolved, my mother shifted her focus. My dad and stepmom swore sometimes and allowed me to watch TV shows and movies she disapproved of, as the rules at their house were different. Every Sunday, when I returned from their house, she would interrogate me: ‘What did you do? What did you watch? Did anyone cuss?’ I knew better than to lie—because lying was the ultimate sin—and so I told her everything, only to be met with overwhelming guilt. I grew up believing that feeling guilty for existing in another home’s reality was normal. I didn’t understand that parents having different rules in different homes was natural; instead, I internalized her guilt as a personal failure.
Her manipulation grew bolder. I still remember when, after one too many Sundays of forced confessions, she decided I shouldn’t visit my dad’s house at all. She told me it was time to ‘tell the truth’ and admit I didn’t want to see them anymore. I was forced—even made to sit down with my dad and stepmom at age 12—to say I didn’t want to see them anymore. Upon further questioning, and realizing I couldn’t give a good explanation as to why, I quickly relented and apologized saying it wasn’t true, though none of it was truly my choice from the start. It was the continuation of a relentless campaign to alienate me from the people who loved me.
Then came the times on errands, when in the car she’d use the quiet moments to fill me with fear. She warned me about my soul, telling me how worried she was at the direction I was headed, and she terrified me with talk of the coming rapture—the idea that she and my brothers would be taken to heaven while I was left behind. The “Left Behind” series was everywhere, and it turned my nights into constant vigil, as I bolted out of bed repeatedly to check that my brothers were still safely sleeping. She was intent to instill in me a fear of the world, telling me things like strangers would break into my bedroom window at night and I had to keep the bedroom door open or she couldn’t hear my screams, that strangers will hide under my car in parking lots while I go gather my groceries and slit my Achilles tendon as I try to get in the car, and that I needed to work from home as an adult because ‘the world is a very scary place’.
She wanted me to stay home, where I would always be right under her control. She hated that my dreams consisted of seeing the world.
Adolescence brought more conflict. Our fights were constant. If I didn’t share her tastes or if I enjoyed something she disapproved of—even a song with a cuss word—she condemned me. Her hypocrisy was clear: a song she liked was acceptable if the bad words were muted, but if it was my choice of song and she didn’t care for it, it was sinful. I wasn’t allowed to question her double standards.
One day, I asked for a cartilage piercing. I expected a simple ‘no,’ but instead, she took me to talk to our preacher. He proposed a compromise: if I memorized a long Bible verse, I could have my ear pierced. I have ADHD, and when I’m motivated, I can hyperfocus. Within a day, I memorized the verse perfectly. I remember the moment vividly: her face shifted from doubt to seething anger, and after a heavy silence, she declared that my accomplishment didn’t count because I hadn’t had time to ‘hide the verse in my heart.’ In that moment, I saw clearly through her manipulation—she’d set impossible conditions just to keep me in line. Even that small victory, celebrated with my dad and stepmom, couldn’t shield me from what was coming next.
The Breaking Point
By the age of 14, everything reached a breaking point. Every weekend at my dad’s house felt like a brief escape from the suffocating guilt at my mom’s. Finally, I made my choice: I told her I wanted to live with my dad full-time and visit her only on weekends. It made sense—I had only four years of childhood left, and I’d never truly experienced life with my dad until then.
That decision set off a chain reaction. My mother exploded. She accused me of abandoning her to take care of my brothers alone. I tried to reassure her, promising I’d still join her for church every Wednesday, but nothing would calm her fury. I realized then that she didn’t care about me at all; she cared only about the control she wielded.
On that Wednesday, instead of taking me to our regular church service, she packed all my belongings into boxes, gave my room to my brother, and coldly informed me that if I ever wanted to visit, I could sleep on the couch. I had expected that day to go about my usual routine, but everything was about to change.
Then came Friday—the day I was supposed to be driven to my grandparents’ house for an overnight stay, a new experience for me. Up until that point, I’d never had to pack an overnight bag because both my mom’s and my dad’s houses always had clothes ready for me. But after she had packed all my things, I was left without any of my own clothes at her house. Instead of taking me to my grandparents as planned, she drove me straight to my dad’s after I admitted that I hadn’t packed an overnight bag—a simple oversight, especially for someone with ADHD, where forgetting such things is common—but she exploded. First, she accused me of deliberately leaving the bag behind because I didn’t want to spend time with the family. Then, in a moment that shattered my world, she shrieked that living with my dad would turn me into a ‘slut and a druggie.’ I had never, ever heard my mommy say those words about anyone, let alone in reference to me. In that moment, it broke me completely. I realized I could no longer call her ‘mommy’; she was no longer my mom. She had officially broken me, and I never willingly saw her again.
After that day, things were different—Christmas passed, birthdays came and went—and my anger and sorrow only deepened. I encountered her sporadically in the years that followed: a painful glance at her at the mall hanging out with my old high school friends, a hurried disappearance at Target when she and my brothers were together, ensuring they didn’t notice me. Eventually I received a letter from her, telling me that God still loved me and that she forgave me—as if I had been the one in the wrong all along and she was now willing to be the bigger person. My anger continued.
In my early twenties, the echoes of her manipulation continued to haunt me. Strangers from her church confronted me; a coworker, who claimed to have known her since high school, insisted I should be ashamed for ‘abandoning’ my mother—he had, apparently, recently caught up with her and she told him all about ‘what I did to her’. It was bewildering to stand there, forced to defend myself against accusations born from her lies. Years later, she sent me a random Facebook message inviting me to a church event insisting I’ll need to ride with her if I want to go—an invitation I ignored, knowing that any contact would risk dragging me back into that toxic cycle.
There’s been no contact since then, until the recent passing of my maternal grandmother. Sometimes we must face things head on, and tuck away our fear, in order to move forward. That’s why you’re reading this today.
I share this story so that my family—and anyone who has experienced similar pain—can finally see the full truth. The choices I made, like moving in with my dad, were acts of survival, not betrayal. I was forced into decisions that were never truly mine by a mother who used guilt and manipulation to control me. I want my family to understand the depth of the alienation I endured and the price I paid for simply trying to survive.
Reclaiming My Story
Today, I stand as a testament to survival and growth. I carry the scars of my past, but I also carry the strength that comes from having reclaimed my story. I am no longer the frightened, broken child forced to choose between two worlds. I have learned that I am worthy of love, understanding, and the freedom to be myself. I am determined to parent differently—to create a space for my children where they never have to bear the impossible expectations or be forced to choose between love and survival. And now, as I step into this next chapter, I am working to reconnect with the family I lost to alienation, healing my heart in ways I never thought possible. It’s not easy, but real healing never is.
This is my truth: raw, painful, and real. I share it not for validation, but so that my family—and anyone who might be caught in a similar cycle—might finally understand the reality behind the facade. I am more than the sum of my struggles, and I deserve to live a life free of guilt and manipulation.” – Anna Grandusky
If you’d like to learn more about parental alienation or need support, I’ve shared resources on my blog, and I’m here to help if you need guidance and support through this difficult experience. Reach out today to schedule a session.
*This story is shared for advocacy and awareness purposes. It reflects my personal experiences and is not intended as professional advice.