Tag: childhood trauma

How Our Parents Impact Us: The Childhood Wounds That Shape Our Lives

“The way we treat our children directly impacts what they believe about themselves.” ~Ariadne Brill

Growing up, I always felt odd. I often wondered what was wrong with me. I compared myself to my friends and always thought they had a better life than me. They had both parents still together, went on family vacations. It was not that I was jealous or bitter, it was just that they seemed to be ‘normal’ and happy. Whatever that means.

I never remember my parents being together. My parents divorced when I was two. I lived with my mother and older sister, who was eight years older than me.

My mother was a nurse, and we grew up in various nurses’ residences, as she did not have money to buy a house.

She was diagnosed with depression, and I remember nights and weekends with her being totally detached from us. She often seemed like a statue just sitting in the lounge chair or lying on her bed watching TV.

She was morbidly obese and ate to control her emotions. She never went out except to go to work and back home. When we did go out, she was anxious and always worried about everyone around her.

She was the kindest person I have ever known—she would give her last cent to help a needy person or animal. She was also the most intelligent person I have ever come across. She knew about everything. Her general knowledge was exceptional. But she never believed she was good enough and never had any self-confidence. She was insecure and self-conscious.

My father was an alcoholic womanizer. Unlike my mother, he needed to be out and about and to be seen. He appeared confident, had hordes of women falling at his feet, and he never seemed shy or insecure. He was the love of my life. I adored him and couldn’t wait for him to fetch me on a weekend to get away from my mother and sister. It was an escape for me.

My mother would constantly put my sister and I down. She would say we were too fat and could not go out “looking like that.” Or we were too thin—both my sister and I had anorexia nervosa at a stage in our lives.

Our clothes had to match perfectly. I can still remember her saying that no decent woman goes out without matching shoes and bag. She would say that only prostitutes wore makeup and ask why we would want to degrade ourselves in that way.

When we did well at school, she told us we needed to work harder and that we would never get anywhere in life if we didn’t. She told us that men were Satan’s children who only ever wanted sex from a woman and that they never loved anyone but themselves. A woman’s place was to just make a man happy while he went off to have affairs.

Starting when I was a young age, she would say, “You can never trust a man, Samantha. They are all the same.” When we got injured, she would be angry with us for showing emotion. She would say only weak people cried. She would never hug us or tell us she loved us.

My father, on the other hand, treated me like a princess. He detested my sister and excluded her from everything. I never understood this behavior until many years later. He had written her off as she had bipolar disorder, and he couldn’t deal with that.

Everything I did was perfect in his eyes. He took me everywhere with him when he fetched me. This would include going to his numerous girlfriends’ houses, bars, clubs. But I loved every minute with him and never felt unsafe. I remember begging him to let me stay with him to avoid going to my mother.

Unlike many people in this world who blame their parents for how they turn out, I have never done that.

I know my mother tried her best under the circumstances. She was brought up in a toxic environment herself, so she did not have any positive role models to base her experiences on.

My father grew up with alcoholic parents who beat the children almost daily. He never had positive role models either.

My sister committed suicide in 2007, as she was too wounded to carry on in this life.

I had never thought about how my childhood had affected my adult life until I left a toxic relationship in March this year and finally realized that perhaps it is true that the way I was treated as a child has directly impacted how I am in adulthood. How the choices I have made have been a direct result of my upbringing.

At forty-eight, I can confidently say the following about myself:

I trust no one, I am insecure, I have zero self-confidence and self-image. All my clothes are a size bigger to hide my body. The only time I ever wore makeup was the day I got married.

I push myself beyond my limits to achieve perfection in my work.

I am terrible at managing my finances.

My relationships have all been disastrous—I have just had toxic people all around me all my life.

The only good thing that has come out of my life are my two precious boys.

When I had my first son, I promised myself that I would not be my mother with him. I hugged him and told him constantly that I loved him. I told him he was good enough, clever enough, that he was doing his best. I did the same with my second son.

With my new understanding and mindfulness, I am trying daily to shift my thinking and telling myself that I too am good enough and that I too deserve love and kindness.

We can only try our best, and while it is not easy, we have a choice to break free of our childhoods and become the best version of ourselves. No matter how old we are.

We have a choice to recognize how our upbringing affected us, heal the wounds they gave us, and break the cycle so we can raise children who believe they’re worthy of love—and treat themselves with love.

February 10, 2022
Dear Mom and Dad, Thank You for the Years of Trauma

“When you finally learn that a person’s behavior has more to do with their own internal struggle than you, you learn grace.” ~Allison Aars

I’m writing this to say thank you for the trauma you caused me since I was born. You might be thinking that I’m being sarcastic, but that’s far from the truth.

Let me explain why I have such gratitude for the pain and trauma you created in my life. Also, please understand that I forgive you.

Dad, I want to start with you because you’re no longer living. I know you’re now able to see the pain you caused.

When I witnessed the violence between you and mom, it caused years of anxiety and depression. I was no longer able to have friends at our house for fear violence and your drunken, angry rages might happen again.

That caused me difficulty in making friends, and that stayed with me for many years. It also taught me to pretend everything was okay and that we had a “good” family. I learned to live a lie.

Your depression made me believe there was something wrong with me. I thought I was the reason you rarely wanted to be around us. I falsely learned I was unlovable.

Your portrayal of being the victim in all of life’s situations taught me that others are always to blame for anything that goes wrong in life. Your self-hatred taught me to hate myself too.

The explosions of anger taught me that’s how you handle life. For years, I blew up on people when I was angry, then pretended it never happened. That cost me romantic and friend relationships for many years.

The embarrassment of your drunk episodes in public caused me a tremendous amount of shame. Not until I got much older, did I realize I shouldn’t be ashamed of something I had no control over.

Your absence throughout my teenage years resulted in seeking negative, unhealthy attention from men. When you attempted a return in my early twenties, you shamed me for being emotionally and physically scared of you.

Every new friendship or romantic relationship I had brought such dread. I knew at some point I’d be asked about my family.

Since I was emotionally unhealthy, I attracted unhealthy people. So, explaining how my alcoholic father wasn’t in my life was never received well.

The shame I had was only increased as I was told, “that’s your father. You should forgive him. Let him be in your life.”

Oh, how that brings up such sadness. I think about all the times I attempted to reconnect with you throughout my twenties. Each time I had high hopes that you’d changed, only to be let down further each time.

To say I had “Daddy Issues” was putting it lightly. Those “Daddy Issues” showed up in very harmful ways. I struggled with men in authority in work environments because of you. I don’t even have to mention again how much you affected my dating life.

Now, it’s time to address Mom and the trauma she caused. Also, I’m going to tell you how the two of you as a unit, also caused a lot of my trauma.

Mom, I have so much to say about the deep, emotional pain you caused and continue to cause. I used to think many of my struggles were a result of Dad. The older I get, the more I realize you’re responsible for more of my pain than Dad ever was.

Since I was just talking about the trauma Dad caused me, let’s talk about how you handled that. You taught me to pretend bad things never happened. Pretend everything is okay and no matter what, never talk about it.

The fear, shame, depression, and anxiety that caused was more than any child should ever endure. Not only that, but when I told you I was depressed as a young teen, you belittled me. Your response was that I had nothing to be depressed about and “to get over myself.”

All of that was incredibly painful, but there’s much more. Your inability to love me and show me affection was the biggest pain of all. Still to this day, even after having done so much healing, I’m still uncomfortable if somebody tries to hug me, other than my husband or baby.

You taught me to never show others that life is hard. Instead, act like we have a good life and that we’re the perfect family. I cringe just even typing that because it’s far from the truth.

As you know, because I’ve told you many times, marrying the man you chose after the divorce was also incredibly traumatic. Your happiness was your priority, not me.

I was a teenager. I still needed my mom, even though we had our issues. It appeared that I was tossed aside for him. You gave up on me. I was free to do anything I wanted to do because you were occupied with him.

I thought that was so much fun. Looking back, I realize how unhealthy and out of control I was. I had no rules and could do anything I wanted, and I did.

I’m still amazed that you married another alcoholic, but you refuse to acknowledge that. On top of that, he despises me and your entire family. I still remember having to load my little nieces up in their pajamas with no shoes to escape one of his childish tantrums aimed at them.

I could go on about my major life events you chose to miss because of him. As I mentioned, he made it clear that he hated me. I even remember you saying, “If you ever make me choose between him or you, I will always choose him.”

That still brings such sadness and pain. Being a mother now, I can’t imagine any circumstance where I’d choose anybody over my child. However, I see how different we are.

Mom and Dad, it’s now time to talk about how your unhealthy, dysfunctional marriage caused such pain. I never saw love between you.

What I saw was the two of you growing further and further away from each other. I saw that neither of you attempted any healing or got me help for the trauma you created.

Instead, we were supposed to ignore all the bad stuff. Never talk about it, no matter what. When I attempted to talk about my struggles and feelings, I was labeled as “dramatic” and “ridiculous.”

Healthy love and healthy relationships are two of the most important things parents should teach their children. Yes, I’m aware that very few parents actually do that.

That gets me to the gratitude I have for you both. The trauma you created is something in which I’ll forever be thankful.

Yes, you wouldn’t think that based on all that I have written thus far. I’m just asking that you bear with me.

For years, I was an angry person and mad at the world. Underneath that anger was depression and a belief that I was unlovable, not good enough for anything.

Due to my childhood trauma, I needed deep healing and years of therapy. I started that in my late twenties.

That process took me several long, hard years. I’m so grateful for the pain you caused. Also, your never getting help gave me guidance in how to do things differently.

The generational trauma has stopped with me. I will not pass on the behaviors that you both taught me.

As I continue my healing work, I can easily see the pain that both of you endured. I know that pain resulted in your hurting me. So, I’ll address you both individually for that.

Dad, I have such love and compassion for you. I know your father was an incredibly abusive alcoholic. He put so much of his not good enough stuff, those feelings of never being good enough, on you, which left you swimming in your insecurities.

I am pretty certain that your father hated himself. That’s probably how you learned to hate yourself, as I did from you.

When I think about your true soul identity, I see a soul with such love. Your true soul was kind and loving.

I remember you driving a girl home on my soccer team that you coached. It was always seemed odd that you dropped me off at home before taking her home.

Now, I know why. She lived in a dangerous area for us to be in, especially at night. The only way she could play soccer was if she had transportation.

You risked yourself driving her home but made sure I was safe. I know I have your loving nature. I love that about myself.

The reason you were an alcoholic was your own childhood. Sadly, you didn’t learn a better way. You repeated what you were shown.

It may seem odd but thank you for the life you chose resulting in my “daddy issues.” That was a beautiful gift that I needed.

Without that, I wouldn’t have married a loving, emotionally healthy man. Also, I wouldn’t have started my healing journey. Self-love would’ve never existed.

As for the childhood trauma you had, I know now you’re at peace. I know you’re proud of what I’m doing in life to heal the generational trauma you left and helping others do the same with my work. Just know the generational trauma will not continue.

Mom, it’s taken a lot more time to have gratitude for the emotional pain you caused. That’s probably because that pain is more recent and still occurs.

However, I now see the reasons you did all you did and continue to do. Acknowledging reality would be too much for you. You would crumble.

Also, I’m aware that your mother was unable to nurture and show you affection. You truly didn’t know how to love me in a healthy way.

I know that you’re not well emotionally. For that, I have such love and compassion. I’ve been there. It’s miserable.

Mom, I also know that you were taught that your image was the most important thing in life. Your behaviors to “protect” your image were simply your way of trying to prove to yourself and others that you were happy.

Due to the trauma, I had from both of you, I was able to learn how to create a life I truly love. Seeing both of you being so miserable showed me that I wanted more for myself.

The pain you two caused resulted in many beautiful things for me. The two things I’m most proud of in my life are results of learning to do things in a different way than I was shown.

Finding an emotionally available, loving, supportive husband was one of my biggest struggles. Fortunately, you two gave me a blueprint for what I didn’t want.

Many people follow in their parents’ footsteps when choosing a partner. Since the two of you showed me how an unhealthy marriage can destroy your life, I did a lot of healing before deciding to marry.

My gratitude for the emotional pain I endured from you two, led me to a promise to myself. I’d never have a child until I was in a good place with the ability to be a loving, nurturing, emotionally available mother.

Without that pain, I’d have never known how to meet my child’s emotional needs. There would’ve been no knowledge of what my baby needs from me.

For me, that’s the most beautiful gift you could have given me. Raising a baby who experiences unconditional love, acceptance and nurturing ends that generational trauma.

Yes, there are times where intense sadness and anger still pop up. However, I’ll continue to do my healing work that allows me to come back to this place of gratitude for you both.

So, hopefully you both see how much love and gratitude I have for you. At your soul levels, I know you have love for me. Showing that was not easy for either of you. Being lost in your own traumas meant you had no clue how to heal.

I truly thank you for creating the pain that led me to this beautiful life. Not only was I able to heal, but I’m now able to pass that on to the world through the work I do and raising my baby.

It’s taken me many years to say and truly mean this, but I wish you both peace and love. You both deserve that.

I know that neither of you intentionally caused me such pain. Also, apologies aren’t something either of you’ve ever been capable of giving.

That’s okay. Again, I know your own trauma prevents that. I forgive you anyway.

In conclusion, I love you both. Thank you for all you put me through because I now have a wonderful, happy life. That’s not something many can say.

Thank you for the hard lessons. Thank you for creating me. Thank you for being who you were or weren’t to me.

That was needed for me to now sit here with love in my heart for you. Forgiveness and gratitude are two things you both deserve.

Love,

Mary Beth

January 30, 2022
From Bombs to Bliss: Peeling Off the Layers of Childhood Trauma

TRIGGER WARNING: This post mentions bombs and executions and may be triggering to some people.

“Into your darkest corner, you are safe in my love, you are protected. I am the openness you seek, I am your doorway. Come sit in the circular temple of my heart, and let yourself be calm.” ~Agapi Stassinopoulos

I was six years old. My mother and I entered the bus to head home from downtown. Suddenly the sirens went off.

I felt a knot in my stomach. People started running around. A cloud of dust formed in the air. I could taste the panic. Sirens meant that it was time to seek shelter. They were the very loud sound of the thin veil between life and death. A moment in time where our brief existence on earth felt palatable.

My father and twelve other family members had been in one of the worst political prisons for almost five years. Ever since his arrest and as far as I can remember, the bitter taste of fear and distrust has never left my side.

I caught a breath when my mother squeezed my hand. I could feel my little heart racing in my chest. When we finally got home, I saw my grandmother running through the yard. Tears were rolling down her face.

“I was worried sick,” she said.

We weren’t sure they had made it either. We all felt temporary relief. We had survived.

It’s hard to think about life without smartphones in the eighties. You never knew if someone was going to make it back home alive. Not until they physically walked through the door.

For the years to come, the government ordered the execution of all political prisoners. My father miraculously survived while his family was executed. The war ended when I was eight years old. The sound of the sirens and terrifying moments passed. As a young girl, I witnessed a lot of physical beatings, oppression, and abuse of young people by the religious guard in my country.

Experiencing war and turmoil in Iran as a child shaped my adult life in so many ways. The feeling of not being safe never left my body, and I continued to live in survival mode as my body carried years of trauma like a heavy weight.

Living in survival mode meant that I was in a constant state of fight, flight, or fawn. I was angry. I lashed out at people very easily. When things got tough, I either fought or froze.

For years, I had a tough time getting out of bed in the morning. I also had a tough time with my identity. I didn’t know who I was. I was a people-pleaser. I did anything to keep the peace around me, and when it got chaotic, I got angry and threw whatever I could get my hands on at the wall.

Suffering was the only thing that made me feel alive. It was the only thing that made sense.

We immigrated to Germany when I was fourteen years old. A whole lot had happened to me up until that point, but now there also was the added pressure of surviving in a new culture. Two worlds collided. German kids weren’t very nice to the foreign girl from Iran. Once again, I was in complete survival mode.

Years passed. My family immigrated to the United States, and I met my American husband (a male wounded version of myself) as a twenty-five-year-old exchange student in Arizona. We instantly connected over our childhood traumas.

Six years into the marriage I got pregnant. I didn’t know it back then, but becoming a mother was the best thing that ever happened to me.

The birth of my daughters became the turning point in my life. Symbolically speaking, I gave birth to a new me. The process was physically and mentally difficult, and when my first birth didn’t go as planned, I struggled with my post-partum recovery and suffered from depression.

Experiencing a difficult time meant that I was feeling all my emotions including the anger that already lived within me. And as my anger got louder, I realized that I had given birth to a child who now was depending on me to survive. I saw love for myself through the eyes of that child, and for the first time I saw the possibility of a new life.

The possibility of a life where I would find the real me underneath all the layers of trauma. The possibility of a life where I could see my childhood in a new light: A light of appreciation. A light of love for who I had become. A celebration of my strength and perseverance.

I didn’t have to hate myself anymore. “It is safe for me to be me,” I declared to myself.

Becoming a mother gave me the strength to push through everything from my past that was holding me hostage for so many years. I was determined to break free the cycle of suffering for my daughter. It wasn’t just about me anymore. Healing doesn’t happen overnight, but life conspired to make it happen for me.

While I was pregnant with my second child, tired from many sleepless nights with my first baby, and stuck in a stressful job in finance, the climate at my corporate job took a turn for the worst. I got rejected from a promotion I was more than qualified for because I was pregnant (or at least that was my perception at the time).

At the same time, my husband received an incredible out-of-town job opportunity. It was an easy decision. I quit my job, and we packed up and moved.

Not knowing what I wanted to do with my life, I got my real estate license in hopes for a new career that would allow me to have a more flexible work schedule. This was the beginning of my healing journey.

Although real estate and healing have nothing seemingly obvious in common, what led to my new journey was the fact that for the first time ever, I was depending fully on myself.

I wasn’t going to have a consistent paycheck, PTO, and personal days. I was the only one in charge of what my days looked like. I was in charge of my own mind. If I didn’t wake myself up in the morning, aside from my children, no one else would.

On the day of my orientation at my new real estate office, the company owner played a motivational video for the class. I remember thinking, wow, this makes me feel good on the inside.

I felt a fire burning in me that I had never felt before.

YouTube became my best friend after that. I consumed every motivational video compilation that I could find. I felt alive. Possibly for the first time ever. What came after this time, aside from my childhood, turned out to be some of the hardest but most rewarding times of my life.

As I learned about how my thoughts and emotions create my reality, I became more self-aware. I was able to distinguish between what was my trauma and what was truly me by observing how certain situations and people made me feel

I understood that what triggers me comes from a subconscious part of me that needs to be heard and seen. I started to take radical responsibility for my own feelings and emotions.

For example, if my daughter did something that triggered anger in me, I would explore what within me was unhealed to cause such a reaction. Was it because I wasn’t heard or seen as a child? Was it because I didn’t feel safe to process my anger in a healthy way?

I would sit with these thoughts and give myself permission to feel my anger, my fears, and my sadness. It was all going to be okay. I am safe. I am loved. I am supported. These became my new daily mantras.

Underneath the weight of anger, there was that little six-year-old. I could finally see her with new eyes and wrap her in a soft blanket of pure love. I started to appreciate my childhood for making me the person that I am today. Brave. Strong. And worthy of a happy life!

This work isn’t over yet. It probably never will be. If you have experienced trauma like I did and you have embarked on a healing journey, know that it takes time to become whole again. And that is okay.

This work is ongoing because the subconscious mind has many layers, and there are always opportunities to explore what is deep within them.

Just as the layers start peeling off, just as you hear, see, and hold your wounded inner child, you will start to see yourself and your life more clearly and feel safe in your body. By bringing those dark aspects of yourself to the light, you’ll start recognizing and addressing your triggers so you won’t feel so emotionally charged all the time.

As you try to visualize a different life for yourself—one less limited and defined by your trauma—you will see what emotions pop up to the surface. You will need you to sit with those emotions so you can identify the harmful self-beliefs that aren’t yours. Beliefs about your worth, your capabilities, your potential. Ideas that are hidden deeply in your subconscious mind that you only adopted as your own because of what you endured in the past.

The more you up level your life and the bigger your dreams get, the more you will unpack. You will unpack all the lies that were fed to you to hold you small, and you will start finding the strength and confidence required to become the person you want to be.

Healing is a journey, don’t rush it. Trust the process and take time to sit with your emotions to feel them fully. And if things get tough just keep going. One foot in front of the other. One moment at a time. The past is behind you, and it made you who you are today. Love yourself and honor your journey. You can overcome the darkness and see the light. If I did it, so can you!

January 11, 2022
When a Mother Fails to Love: What’s Helped Me Move On

“You keep meeting the same person in different bodies until you learn the lesson.” ~Brandon Tarot

Like most girls in junior high school, I tried out for all the cheerleading squads every time tryouts came around—basketball, football, even wrestling. And like 95% of the girls, I never made the squad.

My kicks weren’t high enough, my splits weren’t split enough, my arms weren’t board-straight enough, I couldn’t jump high enough—and, let’s be real here: I wasn’t pretty enough and I wasn’t popular enough. After all, we are talking about junior high school.

But eventually, the one tryout came around that I had half a chance at: the pom-pom squad. Even at thirteen years old, I knew I could dance. Pom pom was the group of ten to twelve girls that performed choreographed routines to music at half-time during basketball games, and rarely during the period breaks at hockey games, on ice (I grew up in North Dakota, where hockey was a big deal).

To try out for pom pom, you usually got together with two or three of your best girlfriends who also wanted to make the team, picked a song you all liked, and tried to choreograph a dance routine to that song.

Picking the right song was crucial: it had to be a popular song that everyone would immediately recognize (Top 40, currently getting radio play time was best!), and it had to have the right rock-and-roll beat that was not too slow so that it would be boring to dance to, yet not too fast so that we would have a hard time making spins, kicks, or coordinated moves in time with the beat.

So it came to pass: Eighth grade, tryout date was announced, and teams signed up to compete. It turned out to be myself and my friends Diane and Becky who agreed we were going to go for it that year.

We had no experience whatsoever in coming up with a dance routine; all we had ever done was watch the previous year’s dance team do their thing, and we figured we might be able to copy a few moves from them. This was 1970, and I believe we chose an Elton John song that was getting a lot of airtime that year.

We pulled my bright orange record player out to my back concrete patio and set it up, where we played that song over and over as we practiced sequences of turns, kicks, fancy footwork, arm movements, and hip action.

This patio was right off the back door leading from our kitchen, and in retrospect I’m sure hearing that song play endlessly must have driven my mother insane, because even after my friends left for the day, I continued to practice, practice, practice.

Finally, the day of tryouts arrived! It was long and nerve-wracking, as we had to watch everyone else’s performance until our turn came around.

We watched as their nerves got the better of them—as the plastered smiles froze and then faded completely, their eyes widening like deer in the headlights. We saw them forget their steps; turn in opposite directions; one girl ran off before her routine was even over. A few routines went smoothly, and you could hear the collective sigh of relief from those of us still waiting, but the disastrous ones unnerved us completely.

I actually have no memory whatsoever of how our routine went. I remember our names being called, scampering up onto the gym floor, hearing the scratching of the needle on the record, and shaking like a leaf until the music started. Then I remember sitting down and the polite applause afterward. That’s it.

We watched as the final teams competed, and waited for the judges to make their picks. This was the worst part of all. The gym was full of girls who all wanted a shot, and they would hear in front of everyone whether they would get that shot or not.

It was already getting late and the judges seemed to be taking a long time. This event had taken place on a school night, so by now it was past 9:30 p.m.

One by one, they started to call the girls’ names who had made it onto the dance team. When they eventually said “Gail …” and hesitated on the last name, I knew it was me they were referring to! (I had a Polish last name that always seemed to get massacred.)

I leapt to my feet and ran out onto the gym floor in complete shock—OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!! My girlfriends pounded me on the back on my way out to the floor and shrieked and clapped for me. Finally, the ONE thing I knew I was good at, and I got my chance to be a part of this group. I was over-the-top euphoric!

I lived a little more than a mile from my junior high school and had to walk back home that night. Well, I practically ran all the way home; I was so excited and couldn’t wait to tell my mom that I had made the pom pom team! I burst into the back door about 10:30 p.m.

I yelled out, “Mom!”

She stormed through the living room and into the kitchen, furious and screaming at me, “Where the HELL have you been??”

Taken aback, I said, “You know I was at pom pom tryouts. I made it!”

She said, “I don’t give a damn. You know your curfew is 10 o’clock. What the hell have you been doing this whole time?”

Dumbfounded, I tried again. “Ma, you know where I was. It went late. It wasn’t my fault. Ma, didn’t you hear me? I made the squad.”

“I don’t care about that. Next time you call if you’re going to be late.” Then she turned around and went to bed.

I was stunned. If she had slapped me in the face, it wouldn’t have hurt worse. Literally the only thing I’d ever competed for, and they had said “Yes, Gail, you have talent, and we want you on our team,” and my own mother didn’t give a damn.

If I ever needed a message that in her mind, my accomplishments meant nothing, she delivered it loud and clear that night. Unfortunately, it left a scar so deep that it remained with me for rest of my life, as the same message continued to be delivered, over and over.

That night I could not get to sleep. Waves of excitement kept washing over me as I couldn’t believe my good fortune in being picked for this elite team. I remember literal chills going through my body; I simply could not relax. Then I would remember my mom’s reaction and a feeling of incredulity would take over.

How could someone do that to their own daughter? How could someone do that to anyone who had such great news to tell—be such a horrible wet blanket?

I never forgave her for how she treated me that night. At the end of that school year, the teacher/advisor who was the head of the pom pom squad thought it would be nice to host a mother-daughter night. The girls would choreograph a special routine, showing the mothers what they had learned all year long, and the teachers would prepare a special buffet for the mothers. This would take place after school one night. I didn’t even tell my mom about it.

The day arrived, and I just told my mom I had a performance after school and would be home late. When I got home several hours later, she tore into me, furious. One of the other mothers had called her up, offering her a ride to the mother-daughter night. Of course this caught my mom off-guard because she didn’t know anything about it, and it embarrassed her as well. She declined the ride, seeing as she wasn’t ready to go out.

Obviously, I got yelled at again because of the embarrassing phone call. But this time I didn’t care. I just tossed my head and said, “I didn’t tell you about it because I knew you wouldn’t want to go anyway.” And I walked away.

The following year, as I was transitioning into high school, I tried out again for the high school pom pom squad. That year, I was the only one from my entire junior high school who made the team. For all three years of high school, I continued to try out and make the team. My senior year, I was the only senior on the squad.

All this is to say that I was good at what I did. And for the four years I was performing with these girls, my mother never came once to watch me dance.

I think her ugly dismissal of my winning a spot on the team, and my response by keeping her away from the mother-daughter night, created a gulf between us that never got repaired. The battle lines between us were already drawn, but that incident firmly entrenched them for many decades to come.

When the most important people in my life essentially told me that I didn’t matter, that my accomplishments didn’t matter, two things resulted: I stopped “putting my pearls before swine,” and I started to seek validation from the wrong people and in the wrong places.

By pearls before swine, I mean this: I protected my heart by not including her in the big celebratory events of my life. I felt that because of her lack of support, she didn’t deserve to be there and wouldn’t really appreciate what I’d accomplished anyway.

We started to live a tit-for-tat existence. One day I came home from high school to find out that she’d given away my dog—she left a note for me on the kitchen table. The explosive fight we had when she came home that evening was epic, as was the silent treatment around the house that lasted for weeks afterward.

She tried to prevent me from attending college, telling me I’d only be wasting money and was only going there to “chase boys” anyway. Four years later when I earned my B.S. degree, I purposely didn’t walk the graduation ceremony to spite her, thus robbing her of her day in the sun. “Why should she get any credit for that,” I thought? Several years later when I earned my M.S. degree, I didn’t invite her to that ceremony either, which I did participate in.

The most far-reaching decision I made, as early as high school, was that I would never have children. I was the youngest of seven in my family and the only one who never had kids. I was so afraid I would turn out to be a mother just like her, and I didn’t want to inflict that kind of misery on any child.

Where was my father in all of this? When I was in junior high school, my father had an operation for a brain tumor and its removal was successful. But a few days later he had a stroke that left him paralyzed on his right side and unable to speak. He remained in this state, wheelchair-bound, for the rest of his life.

This was our alcoholic father who was unfaithful to my mother and physically abusive to her and to his seven children. Our mother, being the righteous Catholic martyr that she was, insisted it was her duty to now care for him at home. I am convinced it was this intensive caregiving for a man she did not love and who had been horrible to her that turned her into the bitter woman who was doing battle with me.

It took decades of hindsight and therapy for me to see and understand this, but in the thick of our day-to-day dogfights, all I saw was a woman who would do everything in her power to hold me back. If she couldn’t be happy, no one was going to be happy.

I’ve had three failed marriages, the final one lasting only nine months. My therapist helped me to see that I chose the same personality type each time: three overachievers, three brilliant and talented individuals, three bright and shiny objects. And by doing that, I was seeking my own validation—they reflected well on me, and surely they must see the same qualities in me.

What I didn’t realize was that in these types of partnerships with high-achieving individuals, there is only room for one successful person, and that person would not be me. Megalomaniacs do not share the spotlight.

Finally, in my sixties now, I understand that aloneness does not mean loneliness. I am more content and fulfilled than I’ve ever been in my life, as I pursue as many passions and dreams as the remaining years will allow. To finally achieve self-acceptance and self-esteem through rigorous study and therapy has been the greatest gift imaginable.

It all started with understanding that my mother’s mistreatment had nothing to do with me. She let her pain shape her life. I won’t do the same. And I won’t spend my time seeking validation from anyone else, as I once did with my mother and three husbands. It’s natural to want approval from other people, but all that really matters is that we approve of ourselves.

January 10, 2022