I had a very, very difficult relationship with my mother, who

The words of John Cleese carry both sorrow and laughter, for they are spoken with honesty and irony: “I had a very, very difficult relationship with my mother, who was supremely self-centred. She was hilariously self-centred. She did not really take interest in anything that didn’t immediately affect her.” At first glance, the remark seems merely humorous, in keeping with Cleese’s nature as a man of comedy. Yet beneath the humor lies a deep truth about human bonds, about the burden of selfishness, and about the way even painful memories can be transformed by wit into lessons for the generations.

The ancients often told of parents who cast long shadows over their children. Some were nurturing and wise, while others, blinded by their own desires, hindered rather than guided. Cleese’s reflection belongs to this eternal pattern: the child who longs for recognition, yet faces a parent whose gaze turns always inward. His words reveal the ache of growing beneath the roof of self-centredness, where love is filtered through the narrow lens of the parent’s needs. And yet, by speaking with humor, he shows that even pain can be borne with dignity and laughter.

Consider the story of Nero, the Roman emperor, whose mother Agrippina wielded power with cunning and ambition. Her love for her son was entangled with her own hunger for influence. History records how their bond, poisoned by control and self-interest, ended in betrayal and death. Though Cleese’s story bears no such tragic end, it reflects the same truth: when a mother or father sees only themselves, the child’s spirit is left to wander, seeking nurture elsewhere.

Yet Cleese also reveals something heroic in his response. Rather than allowing bitterness to consume him, he chose to tell the story with irony, to paint his relationship not only in sorrow but in humor. This is a profound act of resilience. Where others might collapse under resentment, he rose by turning suffering into comedy. This too is ancient wisdom: that laughter can be a weapon against despair, that mockery can lighten the heaviest burden. The Stoics taught that we cannot always control the character of those around us, but we can control the spirit with which we endure them.

His words remind us, then, that the imperfections of our parents do not define our destiny. Many souls have been born under roofs of neglect, selfishness, or misunderstanding, and yet have gone on to carve their own paths of greatness. The child of a self-centred parent can learn, through struggle, the preciousness of empathy, the necessity of listening, and the beauty of selflessness. In this way, even the wounds of childhood can become the seeds of wisdom.

The lesson, O seeker, is clear: you cannot always choose the nature of those who raise you, but you can choose how you will carry their legacy. If your parents gave you warmth, carry it forward; if they gave you coldness, transform it into fire within your own soul. Do not let the shadows of their flaws bind you. Instead, let them sharpen your vision of what you yourself must become.

Practical wisdom follows: learn to meet difficult relationships with both truth and humor. Do not pretend they were perfect, nor let them drown you in bitterness. Speak of them honestly, even sharply if need be, but allow laughter to keep the wounds from festering. Cultivate in yourself the very qualities you longed to see in others—attention, compassion, and generosity. In doing so, you rise above the cycle of selfishness and become a light to those who come after you.

So let Cleese’s words be remembered: even a mother who was “hilariously self-centred” could not extinguish the spirit of her child. He took the pain and reshaped it into art, into laughter, into truth spoken boldly. And so may we all—turning the flaws of the past into strength for the future, carrying forward not the chains of resentment, but the wings of wisdom.