My mom and I lived 1,500 miles apart for 35 years, then moved in together. It was a mistake.

• My mom and I had lived 1500 miles apart for 35 years when we decided to try living together again.
• We thought it would be easy, but didn’t realize how different we’d become.
• Being together after so long only highlighted how our paths had diverged.

When my mom was 76 and I was 52, my mom decided it was time to free herself from the rigors and responsibilities of homeownership. So, she decided to leave her close-knit Florida neighborhood and travel north to live with me in upstate New York.

We had lived 1500 miles apart for 35 years and naively assumed that because we had always gotten along well when I was young and when she visited, it would be all tea parties and good times. We were clueless about how different we had become.

I was happy and excited to have my mom so near me again, dreaming of the fun times we would have. It was wonderful to catch up on the details of each other’s lives and spend time together reminiscing and making plans. But as the weeks passed, we started to realize that we were very different people from when we last lived together, when she was 41 and I was 17.

We expected living together would be easy, but quickly discovered our differences

I am a vegetarian. My mom is not. There were some tense moments when my mom was trying to savor time in the kitchen cooking, with me close by, imagining Salmonella and E. coli coating the surfaces. Mom tried not to be annoyed with me ruining her enjoyable time, saying, “Don’t contaminate the faucet!” and hovering around with a bleach spray at the ready. She gave me her infamous eye roll. I made her fun times in the kitchen a lot less fun.

When I tried to offer advice that I thought would help make my mom’s life easier, I only ended up irritating her. She didn’t want to be told what to do. I thought I was being a caring daughter, but my mom didn’t want or need to be mothered. She had taken care of herself for the past 60 years and was still razor sharp with the same anti-authority streak she’d always had. She’s a grandma with outlaw energy.

I am a night owl and rarely go to sleep before 1 am. My mom’s days often start at 4 am because she goes to bed early. I needed to be mindful to be quiet when I was at my most energetic, while my mom felt she needed to close herself in her room in the morning so as not to wake me up. When I rolled out of bed at 8 am, my mom could hardly believe what a lazy day-waster she had raised!

My mom lived in her Florida neighborhood for decades and knew everyone. She thrives on being with her friends and having places to be. She’s outgoing and makes friends easily wherever she goes. She and her neighbors looked out for each other; she took care of them and their animals, and loved hearing the kids playing and the music of people going about their lives.

I live like a recluse most of the time. My home is in the woods and I can’t even see my neighbors’ houses. I bought my house precisely for the abundance of trees and the lack of people. I can take my dogs out in the morning with my hair standing on end in my pajama pants with the life-size chihuahua faces, and not have to feign a good morning and a smile before I’ve had my coffee. I love hearing the birds singing, distant roosters crowing, frogs croaking, and the utter lack of human sound.

Our differences surprised us

We were surprised how different we’d grown over the years. We had both lived as the only adults in our homes for many years before we lived together, used to directing our own shows. We had no idea we’d grown so different as I transitioned from a daughter to an independent, responsible woman, while she evolved from my mother into a wilder and freer spirit as she aged.

Living together as adults changed our relationship. We lost our unrealistic reverie. I used to think my mom and I had unending positive thoughts of each other.

I thought I was the child who got along best with her, and that living with me was her perfect landing place. It was hard on my child’s heart in my middle-aged chest to realize that was not our reality. I assumed her unending approval, and was crushed when I felt I had disappointed her. She was anticipating my youthful sunniness and got greyer skies.

We don’t live together anymore. We’re better at being mother and daughter with wider boundaries than we thought we needed. We feel close in a different way now. More as adult friends, without expectations. We text our joys and troubles, cheer and support each other. We’re still learning to marvel at our inherited sameness while respecting how the differences of our individual lived experiences have shaped us. We’re practicing getting better at that lifelong dance.