What notable things happened today?
Some days the heaviness doesn’t come from what’s said—it comes from what keeps happening in silence. The quiet, consistent pressure to shrink myself. To make space for everyone else’s unhealed wounds. To not offend. To not disrupt. To not speak the truth that lives in my chest.
But I can’t do that anymore.
I won’t.
Last night, a moment in my own home—my supposed safe space—spiraled into a reminder that for some people, trauma isn’t something to heal; it’s something to wield. My mum was triggered by a man closing cupboards too loudly. Suddenly, it wasn’t just noise—it was war drums. Her voice changed, her defenses rose, and I became the enemy again. The ungrateful one. The one who doesn’t understand. The one who’s cold.
But I do understand.
I’ve always understood.
That’s the problem.
I know the kind of fear that lives in houses with screaming fathers. I know what it feels like to wish your mum would leave, and then feel guilty when she didn’t. I know how to make myself invisible to keep the peace. How to become emotionally responsible for people who never took responsibility for themselves.
But now? I’m raising a daughter. I’m raising myself.
I told my mum she needs therapy. That trauma doesn’t make her entitled to control other people’s emotions. That not every raised voice is abuse. That not every tension is a reflection of her. She didn’t like that. She said she’d rather live alone than be “abused.” She said I’ll never understand. She said my brother would never “turn on her” like I have.
But I’m not turning.
I’m returning—to myself.
To my voice. To my boundaries. To the version of me that sees things clearly now.
I’m not in therapy for fun. I’m not healing for applause. I’m healing because I want to be a mother who breaks the chain. Who doesn’t teach her child that love means shrinking. Or that safety means silence. Or that protecting someone else’s feelings is more important than protecting your peace.
This is what people don’t talk about when they say “break generational curses.”
They don’t tell you it feels like betrayal.
They don’t tell you it’s lonely.
They don’t tell you the people who hurt you will call you the abuser for refusing to carry their pain.
But I didn’t start this fire—I’m just refusing to burn in it.
So no, I’m not sorry.
I’m not cruel.
I’m not ungrateful.
I’m aware.
And I’m not going back.
Because one day, my daughter will thank me.
Not for being perfect—but for being the one who stopped pretending it wasn’t broken.
Adulting & Motherhood 