What do you do when you can no longer co-parent with an ex?

We.Feel.Weather.

As a single mother, I feel trapped in a life I never chose and no longer recognise. I feel like I have no real say in my own son’s life — that decisions are quietly made elsewhere, without me, by people who don’t have to carry the emotional or practical weight that I do.

I have never tried to be difficult. I have bent myself into someone agreeable, flexible, understanding — because I believed that was what co-parenting required. But somehow, despite all of that, I am still painted as the problem. Still criticised. Still spoken down to. Still made to feel small.

My ex and his partner have been able to move forward: build a life, have another child, move in together, grow a business. I, on the other hand, have had to give everything up to be available for my son. Full-time work isn’t an option — not because I don’t want it, but because it doesn’t suit my ex’s life. So I try to find flexible work in a town with no opportunities, in an economy that doesn’t allow parents to survive outside of a rigid 9–5. I’m constantly told to “just make it work,” without anyone asking how.

And now I feel alone. Deeply, painfully alone. I’m mentally and physically exhausted, barely staying afloat as the cost of living rises and the pressure never eases. People tell me, “It won’t always be this hard,” but those people aren’t living this every day. They aren’t navigating constant anxiety, financial strain, or isolation without family to lean on. They have support systems. I have myself.

The past nine years haven’t been easy — but somehow, they were easier than this. Communication is breaking down. Control is tightening. And I’m reaching a point where I don’t know how to keep going like this. I’ll explain more about that in another post, but today I needed somewhere safe to put the truth.

Because the hardest part isn’t even the practical struggle — it’s the emotional erosion. Feeling like you have little to no authority in your own child’s life. Being criticised, judged, and at times spoken to in ways no one should tolerate. Being made to feel disgusting for simply existing differently to someone else’s expectations.

Everything I do is for my son. Yet even that feels weaponised against me. He’s nearly ten, and I hate admitting this, but co-parenting has strained my relationship with him in ways I never imagined. I feel resentment — not towards my child, but towards a situation that has placed him between adults and power plays. Even communicating with him is becoming harder, and that breaks my heart.

I feel like I’m no longer fully part of my son’s life. When he comes back after time at his dad’s, he’s different — distant at first, then moody with me. This time, he told me he didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to his sister and that he didn’t want to come home. He said he’d rather be there. Hearing that makes it harder to keep going than I know how to explain, especially when I’m already trying so hard to hold my tongue, to protect him, and to love him without pulling him further into the middle.

I keep going because I want him to have stability — as much as that’s possible when he has two homes, something he’s never wanted and openly struggles with. I fight the urge to ask whether he likes being here with me, because I know that question comes from my own fear, not something he should have to carry. A few weeks ago, he said that if I left, he’d be glad — that he’d never want to see me again. I know children say things they don’t fully understand, but knowing that doesn’t soften the ache.

What’s becoming harder to ignore is the shift I see each time he returns. He’s more dominating, more dismissive. He speaks to me as though my rules, my opinions, even my presence, are an inconvenience. I am not a pushover — I do set boundaries — and when I firmly remind him of that, he reins himself back in. But the words he uses, the tone, the attitudes… they’re specific. And they don’t feel like they come from him alone.

It’s clear he’s absorbing different messages, different values, from the adults around him — and I think he’s torn. Caught between broken communication he doesn’t yet have the language to make sense of. I feel like I’m holding one end of a rope, trying desperately to keep everything steady for him, while the other end is being pulled in directions I can’t control.

I don’t see myself as a victim in this. I’m the parent. I set rules. I take responsibility. But those rules don’t exist in isolation. He has another home, another environment, other influences shaping him — and slowly, he’s becoming someone I don’t always recognise. Sometimes, if I’m honest, someone I struggle to like in those moments.

And that’s the part I’m finding hardest to separate from my love for him.

From the outside, I’ve always said that the relationship between me, my ex, and his partner is “good.” The truth is much quieter and much harder. We have fundamental differences in values and parenting, yet I’m expected to report everything — even taking my son to the doctor — while my ex avoids the responsibility but demands the control. I feel less like a co-parent and more like a personal assistant.

I gave up my career. My independence. My future plans. Meanwhile, he has been free to move on and succeed — while still controlling what I can and can’t do from a distance. If he feels I’m stepping outside the version of me he’s comfortable with, communication suddenly stops. He’ll keep my son for days without telling me when he’s coming home, insisting that it’s “up to our son to decide.” My son isn’t encouraged to call me, yet when he’s with me, daily contact is expected.

When I take my son on holiday, I’m questioned relentlessly — where I am, who I’m with, my travel times, my routes. While I’m away, contact is demanded every day. That same respect is never returned.

This Easter has broken something in me. My mental health is at its lowest point, and I don’t know where to turn to regain any sense of control over my own life. It’s a strange kind of grief — being separated from someone, yet still living under their influence.

Is anyone else living this way? Where work is restricted, time with your child is monitored, and there is no real escape from the people who still hold power over you?

I tried so hard to be civil. I encouraged a strong relationship between my son and his dad. I swallowed my discomfort for the sake of peace. But now I’m the one falling apart. And as my son gets older, it’s becoming harder — not easier — to carry this alone.

I wanted a new life. A real family. A partner. I hoped for another child. But now I’m almost 40, exhausted, stuck, and unable to see a future that belongs to me.

And that’s the part that hurts the most.

Quietly Sharing,

Tina