—a reflection on my first “accidental” no-contact break
Most people assume my No Contact journey started in 2024, when the truth finally blew the doors off my life. But in reality, the first crack in the system happened years earlier—long before I knew what narcissism was, long before I had language like cPTSD, emotional boundaries, or generational trauma.
It happened with my step-father.
(not knowing he wasn’t my real father at this point…)
Back then, I didn’t know anything about the cycle of narcissistic families. I didn’t know that children are conditioned to feel responsible for everyone else’s emotional comfort, or that the “family IT person” role was just another flavor of exploitation. All I knew was that whenever his phones went down, I ceased to exist as a human being and became a tool. If I didn’t answer—even if I was dealing with paying clients—he would call again. And again. And again. Back-to-back. No pause. No respect. No consideration.
So I did what anyone at the end of their rope would do:
I changed my number.
But when his system inevitably acted up again, he switched tactics.
He started calling my daughter’s phone.
Over. And over. And over.
To watch my daughter—who was still young at the time—spiral into panic because a grown man was blowing up her phone for something he wanted… that was it.
That was the moment the dormant “papa bear” in me woke up.
I didn’t have the term “No Contact.”
I didn’t know what narcissistic entitlement was.
I didn’t recognize the conditioned panic response in myself.
But I did know this:
What he did to my daughter crossed a line.
I sent him a message—the kind you only write when decades of swallowed resentment condense into a single, nuclear point of clarity. I told him, bluntly and unapologetically, that the relationship was one-sided, that I was done being used, and that terrorizing my daughter was not fucking okay.
I had my daughter block his number moving forward.
I did the same.
And just like that, without realizing it, I took my first real step toward reclaiming my life.
Years Later, After the Mom-pocalypse…
After Judgment Day 2024, when I returned to Washington after my sister and I teamed up to rescue my son, I ended up taking an unexpected call from my step-father through her phone. For the first time in years, I heard his voice—and it wasn’t the voice from my childhood.
It wasn’t the authoritarian tone I grew up fearing.
It wasn’t the micromanaging, dismissive version of him I remembered.
It was a frail, tired, defeated old man who just wanted his phones working.
I didn’t give him my new number. I didn’t re-open anything. But I did speak to him long enough to realize something profound:
He wasn’t the villain of my story. He was another survivor of my mother.
His bad behaviors—the control, the short temper, the rigidity—looked different to me now, filtered through the lens of cPTSD survival. He had been living with her, too. And while that didn’t excuse everything, it explained enough for me to release the old fear.
We talked briefly about the truth. I told him, “I know she lied to all of us.”
He sighed and said only, “She came from a bad background…”
Still minimizing. Still deflecting. Still trying to look composed.
But not malicious—just… damaged.
In another lifetime, maybe that would’ve opened the door to reconciliation.
But in this one?
There is too much water under that bridge.
Too much history.
Too many wounds that don’t need to be reopened to be resolved.
I feel sadness for him now—not anger.
I wish him peace from a distance.
And I keep that distance for my own peace.
Looking Back, I See It Clearly Now
Before I ever understood narcissism…
Before I ever learned to set healthy boundaries…
Before the Mom-pocalypse detonated the lies of my past…
I already had a preview of what it meant to choose myself.
That moment with my step-father was the first time I said:
“No more.”
“No more being used.”
“No more sacrificing myself to keep the peace.”
“No more letting someone bulldoze my boundaries.”
It was my first No Contact.
My first act of self-protection.
My first glimpse of the strength I didn’t know I had.
And now, after the truth, after beginning to heal, after beginning to reclaim my life—
I can finally see that version of me with compassion.
He wasn’t overreacting.
He wasn’t being dramatic.
He wasn’t being “too sensitive.”
He was finally learning how to speak up.
