Tiny Buddha

Tag: father

  • 5 Surefire Signs You Grew Up with an Emotionally Immature Parent

    5 Surefire Signs You Grew Up with an Emotionally Immature Parent

    “There’s no such thing as a ‘bad kid’—just angry, hurt, tired, scared, confused, impulsive ones expressing their feelings and needs the only way they know how. We owe it to every single one of them to always remember that.” ~Dr. Jessica Stephens 

    All children look up to their parents from the moment they enter this world. They have this beautiful, pure, unconditional love pouring out of them. Parents are on a pedestal. They are the ones who know what’s best! They are the grownups showing us how to do life!

    We don’t think for one moment that they could be showing us the wrong way.

    I, like many others, adored both my mum and dad. I could not see their flaws, their pains, or their trauma. I just loved them and wanted to spend time with them. If they shouted at me and told me I was wrong, I trusted that they were right, no question.

    When I had non-existent self-esteem, anxiety, and suicidal ideation because I believed I was not good enough, I blamed that 100% on myself. I had unconsciously recorded all those moments when their behavior had made me feel not good enough as my own fault for being ‘bad,’ not considering they could have had something going on themselves.

    When I struggled in romantic relationships, always chasing unavailable men, I held myself responsible and never for one minute thought that this pattern of behavior stemmed from my relationship with my parents. I believed what they had told me in different ways—that I was the problem!

    The reason I struggled in relationships, I later discovered, was that my parents were not actually okay when they were parenting me because of their own traumas and were emotionally immature.

    Here are five signs you had emotionally immature parents and how may it impact you.

    1. Their feelings and needs were more important than yours.

    Emotionally immature parents can be incredibly self-absorbed and distracted by their own feelings and emotions, and they want their child, you, to regulate them.

    For example, when my mum was upset, I would be affectionate toward her and soothe her. As I got older, she would be angry with me if I was not there to soothe her when she needed it, saying I was selfish and she had no one. I believed her.

    I was off playing with my friends and being a child, but this was not allowed if it meant I couldn’t meet her needs and calm her emotions. As a result, I learned it was not safe to choose my needs over hers, as she would withdraw her love from me, which felt so scary. My heart would race, and I would feel terror take over my body.

    As an adult, this meant I believed I was responsible for other people’s emotions, and if they were angry or upset, it was my fault. So I would always walk around on eggshells just in case someone might attack me for upsetting them. Because I believed everyone’s pain was my fault, I attracted more relationships like the one with my mum. These relationships made me feel powerless.

    2. Expressing your feelings or needs was not safe.

    When you expressed a feeling and it was met with a negative reaction from your parent, it created a world of panic inside your body. For example, sharing how you were struggling could have been met with a comment about how their lives were so much worse and you should stop being so dramatic.

    Expressing a need, like asking for a ride somewhere, could have launched an attack about how selfish you were—and didn’t you realize how hard your parents were working!

    So what happened? You stopped expressing your feelings and needs and buried them deep. (For me, I topped them with ice cream and sugar for comfort.) As an adult, you may now be so cut off from your own emotions and needs that you act as if you don’t have any.

    3. They did not take responsibility for their actions.

    They’d say or do something that really hurt you, but they wouldn’t acknowledge it, nor apologize. In fact, they may have just carried on as normal.

    Your relationship with them was not repaired as a result. You may have tried to resolve the situation, but you were the only one trying, and you may even have found yourself blamed for something you didn’t even do. The whole situation would leave you feeling crazy and like you didn’t know what’s true. You may even have started thinking it was your own fault.

    As an adult, you might repeat this dynamic in other relationships, feeling powerless to repair and resolve issues that arise. This leads to resentment and staying in unhappy relationships because you don’t know it can be any other way.

    4. They have no idea how to regulate their emotions.

    They walked around triggered by their emotions all day. They had no idea how to bring themselves back into balance. They’d come home exhausted from work, but rather than doing something to discharge from the day, they’d get stuck in their chores and then take out their emotions on others due to resentment over being so tired.

    They also might have had no idea what they were feeling. Maybe they were constantly angry because they lacked the self-awareness to recognize they were really feeling sad or anxious or overwhelmed. And because they didn’t know what they were feeling, they had no idea what they needed to do to feel better.

    5. You were forced to grow up before your time.

    It wasn’t okay for you to be a child. They found it way too stressful, so you were encouraged to be a little adult. Maybe even a little adult that parented them. It was also not safe for you to be a child. You couldn’t be loud or silly, as they could have lost their temper, so you walked around on high alert waiting for this. You may have learned to be the calm one because your parents weren’t.

    I found myself getting involved in their very grown-up arguments as a child just to try and keep the peace in the house. This is not the role of a child. If you had the same experience, you may find yourself attracting similarly codependent relationships as an adult.

    —

    If this childhood sounds like yours, you are not alone. There are many of us. There is an inner child within you that missed out on so much love, nurturing, encouragement, and balance, which could be the reason you are struggling now as an adult.

    It is not because you are not good enough or because you are to blame for everything. It is because you were raised by emotionally immature parents. Effectively, you were raised by children in adult bodies.

    You could still be dealing with these patterns as an adult with your parents, as they could be children in even older bodies now!

    Learning how to be emotionally mature yourself so you don’t repeat the patterns with your own children is a wonderful gift to be able to give them, but also it means you can have healthy relationships and find peace within. Healing and reparenting your inner child means you will be able to express your emotions and have boundaries so others don’t think it is okay to do the same to you.

    I used to feel powerless when people treated me like this, not just with my parents but in other relationships too. I would try to be whatever they wanted me to be, but they would still react in the same ways no matter what I did. Stepping back from them and focusing on healing my inner child, understanding her feelings and needs, and holding space for her has changed my life. I was able to become the parent I always longed for.

    I understand now that my parents were emotionally immature, as they were raised by emotionally immature parents too. They were mature with money and jobs, but with emotions, they were out of their depth because no one showed them how to manage them, and unfortunately, they never learned.

    But we can be the generation that breaks this pattern by being the emotionally mature parent we needed. We can be the example of healthy relationship dynamics that we never had.

    **This post was originally published in 2022.

  • A Transracial Adoption Story of Love and Resilience

    A Transracial Adoption Story of Love and Resilience

    “Make it a great day that ends with a smile in your heart.”

    Growing up, I always heard my father speak variations of these words. They’ve always sort of been ingrained in my head, but now more than ever are forever planted. He lived by them. He breathed them. And in doing so, he instilled them in me so naturally.

    They weren’t just encouragement—they were a way of life, his life, and how he chose to show up each day. He was naturally positive, uplifting, and, without exaggeration, the best human I’ve ever known.

    From a very early age, I understood that how you show up is a choice. But, along with that too, every day is a second chance, which were both powerful lessons that have shaped my resilient nature.

    Whether it’s in moments of challenge or joy, I believe the responsibility for your mindset and actions is completely in your hands. You choose how to respond to situations, people, and yourself. 

    Life, though, doesn’t have to be a series of irreversible moments; instead, each new day offers a clean slate. Whether you learn from the past or are trapped by it is a choice. And even when you face setbacks or make mistakes, you have the opportunity to reset and approach things differently the next day—you just have to do it. This belief in daily renewal is a cornerstone of resilience and gives me hope and motivation to keep moving forward, even when things seem tough.

    My story began in a small Ohio town many years ago, with a phone call that changed two families’ lives forever.

    I’m a biracial female (white and Black) who was placed for adoption and came home to a white family that loved me deeply. It was considered a transracial, open adoption thirty-nine years ago. From the moment my new family laid eyes on me, I was theirs and so deeply loved. I completed their family of five, being the only girl, the only adopted child, and the youngest.

    But life doesn’t always unfold predictably.

    When I was just eight months old, my adoptive mother passed away from liver cancer, leaving my father to raise three young children on his own for many years to come. His profound loss was immense, but he didn’t let grief define him. Instead, he poured every ounce of love into me and my brothers, ensuring we never felt a void he couldn’t fill. He not only surrounded us with his love but also made sure we were supported by the love of our community.

    All three of us share a different relationship with our dad, but the depth of our bond that he and I shared was immense. He was my rock, my greatest cheerleader, the person who saw my potential long before I recognized it in myself. He taught me resilience in the face of adversity and instilled a belief in myself that has carried me through even the most uncertain times. I am who I am because of him.

    For as long as I can remember, I’ve identified as Black because of the color of my skin, though I’ve always known that I am also half white. Understanding my identity, however, has always been a challenge—and I believe it’s a struggle that many transracial adoptees can relate to.

    Raised in a small, predominantly white town until fifth grade, I was often the only person of color in my circle. This made it difficult to understand where I fit in. The complexities of identity are immense when you find yourself in situations like this, and being biracial adds an extra layer of nuance. It becomes especially important to understand and embrace all sides of who you are. But how do you do that?

    I remember seeing Ebony Magazine around the house, something that might seem small to some, but for me, it was powerful. I would just flip through it as a little girl and look at the pictures, but it showed me people who looked like me.

    I also had a big sister through Big Brothers Big Sisters for several years, and there was never a moment when we shied away from discussing race or my adoption story. My dad, too, was always committed to understanding and supporting me—he continually read and educated himself on raising biracial children, even into my adult years.

    Being white, he was intentional about ensuring I never felt alone in my experiences. How he did this, as a white man himself, is truly special. He understood his privileges and my disadvantages, yet he made it his mission to learn everything he could about raising a biracial child in a world where kids—and adults, in my case—could be cruel.

    He could rarely (if ever) relate to the nuances of my reality, but he made it his life’s work to make sure I knew my worth in every possible way. That’s what made him so unbelievably special.

    When I came home in tears because classmates questioned why I “acted white, but I was Black,” he reassured me that I didn’t need to fit anyone’s definition of who I was “supposed to be.”

    After remarrying my wonderful stepmom and moving to a more diverse town, he was excited when I chose to attend a more culturally diverse high school. But when I struggled because of kids poking fun of my hair not being done or ignorant remarks from strangers, he stood by me with unwavering support, ensuring the trauma I faced was addressed head-on and talked through, because it was all part of my story.

    By the time I reached adulthood, I still often grappled with the complexities of my identity. But these words echoed in my mind: “It’s not meant for them to understand” and “Sometimes, there’s no reasoning with people like that.”

    These simple truths have continued to free me in times when I struggle to let go of things that don’t serve me. I didn’t need to explain myself to people who weren’t willing to listen. I only needed to be true to myself. And even today, I sometimes forget that in the moment, but I always come back to it when those moments happen.

    At thirty-eight, I was forced, for the first time, to truly find my own path and face things head-on. In May of 2024, my father passed away suddenly.

    Grief is heavy and unpredictable, and I find myself reaching for the phone to call him, only to remember he’s not physically here anymore. His voice, his lessons, and his love and zest for a better, more fulfilling life live in me now.

    One of the things that my dad and I shared was a love for the Tiny Buddha blogs. This was the only publication we ever read together consistently. It seemed only fitting to me, in the wake of his passing, to submit this post on the anniversary of his death. Through the blogs, we learned about resilience, about finding yourself when you’re lost, and about facing life’s challenges with the absolute best intention.

    My father was always the messenger of these lessons. He would say, “Life is tough, but it doesn’t have to break you.” Facing challenges, and even trauma, is essential to growth. Trauma doesn’t always have to stem from family—it can come from anyone and anything in your formative years and beyond. But what matters is how you choose to process and overcome it.

    Life is unpredictable. It will challenge you, stretch you, and break you down when you least expect it. But within those moments, there is also love, resilience, and the opportunity to define your own path and start anew. My father taught me that. He would always say, “Tomorrow is a new day.” And in his absence, I am choosing to live by the words he gifted me:

    Make it a great day that ends with a smile in your heart.

    Because no matter what life throws our way, we have the power to choose how we respond. We have the power to create joy, to uplift others, to choose to see the glass half full, and to find meaning even in the hardest moments.

    That is the legacy he left me. And that is the lesson I hope to pass on.

  • To the Parent Who’s Stressing About Being Imperfect

    To the Parent Who’s Stressing About Being Imperfect

    “Your greatest contribution to the universe may not be something you do, but someone you raise.” ~Unknown

    Have you ever heard the saying, “Mama knows best” or “If mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy”? Honestly, who decided that moms should know everything and that the entire emotional balance of the home rests solely on their shoulders? Isn’t Mom a human too? A beautiful soul navigating this life, trying to figure things out just like everyone else? How is it fair that we pile all the pressure onto this one person—the keeper of the schedules, the task doer, the tender space for everyone to fall?

    It’s no wonder the pressure on moms today is sky-high. We carry expectations that are impossible to meet—being nurturing yet productive, selfless yet balanced. And let’s not forget about dads, who often get a bad rap for not doing things “as well as mom.”

    We need to take a step back. Both parents are human. They come into parenting with their own limiting beliefs, inner critics, and childhood wounds. Being a parent doesn’t mean you automatically know what you’re doing.

    I’ll never forget the drive home from the hospital with my first son. I was in the backseat, staring at this tiny human, thinking, “They’re really letting us take him home?”

    It hit me, sitting in that glider in his nursery a few weeks later, that I had no idea what I was doing. I tried reading all the books, hoping the answers were tucked in there somewhere. But even after reading the same chapter of Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child at least thirty times, I still felt lost.

    So, I did what felt natural—I called my mom. Surely, she had the answers. But all she said was, “This too shall pass.” At the time, her words made me angry. I didn’t have time for things to pass; I needed solutions. Yet, over the years, I’ve come to realize that she didn’t have all the answers either. None of us do.

    This journey of figuring it out—of reading books, blogs, and consulting my mom—lasted for many years. I wanted so badly to be a good mom. I was a good mom. I loved my kids deeply, left little notes in their lunch boxes, tucked them in at night, and kept them safe with helmets and seatbelts. But as he grew, so did the struggles, and often, so did my fear.

    When my son was in elementary school, he began struggling terribly. At first, I thought maybe he just needed a little extra encouragement. But when he would cry at homework or tear up on our way to school, I knew it was deeper. He would rush through his work just so he could turn in his tests at the same time as the other “smarter” kids. School was overwhelming for him, and it was crushing me to watch.

    Eventually, he was diagnosed with ADHD and dyslexia, and a wave of conflicting emotions washed over me. I was relieved to know he had support now, but the meetings, the individualized education programs, the tutoring—all of it weighed on me.

    Sitting in those meetings with teachers and specialists, I’d feel a tightness in my chest and tears spilling over. I wanted him to have an easier path, but I was realizing that I couldn’t just “fix” it. I was the mother, the one who was supposed to protect him, but I was helpless in the face of these challenges he would have to navigate on his own. My heart ached for him, and I often felt ashamed of my own emotional unraveling.

    Reflecting back, I see how much of those tears were for him—and for me. I was spread too thin. Work was overwhelming, my marriage was strained, and I had little left to give. My life felt like a juggling act, and each new challenge threatened to tip the balance. The layers of fear, responsibility, and love were always there, piling up, and I felt the weight of every single one.

    And then came the teenage years. Those years where the stakes felt higher, where choices carried more weight, and where my fear around his decisions—who he spent time with, the roads he might choose—grew even stronger.

    I remember one day, standing in the garage in an argument with him. The tension was thick, and we were both yelling—my fear bursting out as anger. I don’t even remember what we were arguing about; it’s a blur. But the shame and guilt afterward were so clear.

    The truth is, every stage of my son’s life brought forward a new version of myself—a woman, a mother, learning as she went, trying her best to balance it all. My own fear of failure, of not being enough, would surface in unexpected ways. But somewhere along the journey, I realized that my fears and my need for control were driving a wedge between us. And the more I tried to grip tightly, the more I lost sight of the tender love and wonder I wanted to bring into our relationship.

    So, I started working on myself. I went to therapy and hired a coach—not because I was broken, but because I knew I wasn’t showing up as the parent, or the person, I wanted to be.

    Through my healing journey, I learned that my desire to control was rooted in fear—a fear that if I didn’t do everything perfectly, he would somehow slip through the cracks. I feared for his future, that he’d face pain or hardship. But as I began to peel back those layers, I started to see that my fear wasn’t protecting him; it was keeping me from fully loving and trusting him.

    As I did this inner work, something shifted. My approach softened. I wasn’t as reactive or rigid. I found that I could set boundaries from a place of love instead of fear, listen without rushing to fix, and let him make his own choices.

    I became less focused on making sure everything was perfect and more focused on simply being there. I was less afraid, more open—and, truth be told, I began to enjoy life more. I found joy in the little things again, the mundane moments I used to take for granted. And he noticed.

    My children began to see me differently. They told me I was more patient, kinder, and even more fun. This loop of healing—me working on myself, allowing my own growth to ripple into how I showed up for them—created a connection that only grew stronger. The more I invested in myself, the more balanced I felt, and the deeper my love for them became.

    So, what about that old saying, “If mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy”? Perhaps instead we should say, “No one is happy all the time, but if mom is struggling, she needs time and space to address her own issues, and everyone in the house will benefit.” The same goes for Dad. If he’s checked out, he needs to come back to this one life we’re given. Both parents need to heal, grow, and show up for themselves so they can be there fully for their kids.

    Just like the thermostat in your home, if things are too hot or too cold, you adjust it to find comfort. The same goes for parenting. When we take the time to work on ourselves, we create the right environment—not perfect, but balanced and loving—for our children to thrive.

    It’s never too late to start. Let’s embark on this healing journey together so we can show up as the best parents we can be—not because we have all the answers, but because we’re willing to do the work, grow, and love along the way.

  • How I Changed My Life by Becoming a Thought Snob

    How I Changed My Life by Becoming a Thought Snob

    “Loving people live in a loving world. Hostile people live in a hostile world. Same world. ~Wayne Dyer

    Driving home from another visit to the pediatrician, Mother reiterated how puny I was: “You’re just like Mommy. She was so frail. You get sick easily.” I’d say I was five years old when I wholeheartedly accepted this hogwash as fact. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you I stayed sick for three decades because I truly believed I was prone to illness.

    I come from a long line of women who never got what they wanted. They settled, conformed, and were submissive to their male spouses. I recall when I was probably eight and witnessed a heated knock-down drag-out between my parents.

    Those fights used to scare me, and I always ended up resenting my father because my mother was no match for him physically or intellectually. As she cleaned up the black mascara that had bled underneath her eyes, she told me something that ended up shaping my relationships with men.

    “Paula, if you care about a man, he’ll treat you like dirt beneath his feet.”

    And just like that, my perspective of men and where I stood with them was ill-fated. My teenage and adult relationships with men mirrored that belief that I accepted as fact when I was still getting bad perms. The bad perms were evidential proof that my brain wasn’t fully developed, so I was far too young to accept any beliefs as facts.

    Let’s flash forward a few years to when my father decided he was too much of a man for one woman. I was eighteen when my parents divorced. Two new women entered and filled our shoes one week after Mother and I left the brick-and-mortar institution we had called home.

    My father had taken on a girlfriend who had a daughter. The daughter set up shop in my bedroom and quickly adapted to answering to my nickname, “Little One.” I felt like I had been replaced because I had been. Very brutally and in true narcissistic form.

    At eighteen, I wasn’t equipped with the emotional intelligence of Mother Teresa, so I blamed myself for not being lovable, a subconscious belief that controlled my behaviors for the next twelve to thirteen years.

    During that time, I went from a size six to sixteen, bought property in Hell on Earth, and dated a drug-addicted criminal with multiple personalities, a mentally ill redneck who self-medicated, and a sex-addicted politician who had five out of the nine defining narcissistic traits. Believing I was unlovable created a string of unlovable experiences.

    At thirty, I realized I had experienced more heartache than love, and I was sick of living a life that wasn’t worth living.

    A couple of years prior, I was introduced to Dr. Wayne Dyer and was evaluating why my life looked the way it did. One day, I heard Dr. Dyer say something that changed the trajectory of my life: “Loving people live in a loving world. Hostile people live in a hostile world. Same world.”

    Holy shit. That’s when I put two and two together and realized I had been a victim of a downbringing, but that didn’t mean I had to stay a victim. Downbringing is a word I created to describe a socialization that taught me how to live in havoc instead of happiness.

    You might be wondering, “Well, Paula, what defines a downbringing versus an upbringing?”

    A downbringing happens when a young person accepts the subjective opinions (aka lies) of the people who influence them most without questioning or awareness of what is actually true (aka objective). In turn, the subjective beliefs creep into their subconscious minds and control their behaviors before they even realize what has happened. After many years, their mind is like a landfill because they have allowed any thought to live there rent-free.

    Using myself to demonstrate what a downbringing does to the mind, here is an overview of my belief systems during the first three decades of my life:

    • Women getting abused by men was normal.
    • Backstabbing friends and family members was normal.
    • Anyone who looked different than me was of lesser importance.
    • People are born lucky or unlucky, and no one has control over that.
    • I was more susceptible to sickness than others, and there wasn’t anything I could do about that.
    • Drinking excessive amounts of alcohol was normal.
    • There was one way to make money, so I had to take any job I could find, whether I liked it or not.
    • Women aren’t capable of making as much money as men.
    • Everyone was better than me.
    • It was wrong to want more. Wanting more meant I was a stuck-up snob.
    • Jealousy is a healthy response to anyone who looks better or has more.
    • Anger is totally acceptable in any situation when someone presents opposing beliefs.
    • The amount of money someone has makes them superior, and they earn the right to control people who have fewer material assets.

    I can keep going, but I think this list is the perfect Polaroid. Notice that what I stated about wanting more meant I was a stuck-up snob. There was something that was said to me repeatedly when I was still getting bad perms and on up until I was in my thirties.

    Whenever I mentioned wanting a better life, I was told I was getting above my raising. If I mentioned admiring someone who was wealthy, highly educated, or beautiful, I was quickly shot down with that statement, usually with a belly laugh from the person who said it.

    Have you ever been around someone who always found a way to humiliate the living daylights out of you? I have. I was raised by a man who used humiliation as a disciplinary tool, and he loved to pull that tool out of his pocket and use it strategically, especially when he had an audience.

    For many years, I stopped vocalizing my big dreams out of fear that he would embarrass me with a cruel, disempowering lie (aka subjective opinion), but one day, I responded differently to his humiliation tactics. This was a few years into my personal growth evolution, and I had figured out the key to living the best life possible. I wasn’t quite there yet, but I had figured it out and was heading toward a better life at the speed of an Amtrak train.

    He was intimidated by that because he could no longer intimidate me. On this day, he told me I was getting above my raising, and I loudly said, “God, I hope so.” His eyes got as big as two cannonballs, and at that moment, I transitioned from a thought slob to a thought snob.

    As I write this article, I am forty-seven. I have spent the last twenty years living the opposite of how I was taught to live. And guess what?

    I’m not frail at all. As a matter of fact, not only am I in optimal health, but I am also asymptomatic from a rare bladder condition called interstitial cystitis that is supposedly incurable. There’s more.

    My husband is the kindest, most supportive person I’ve ever known. I walked away from an employer who wanted to own my soul for a couple of bucks and thrived in my female-owned business. As it turns out, the people I was jealous of ended up being my greatest teachers because it was those people that I admired.

    If I continued behaving like a thought slob, accepting everyone’s opinions as absolute truths, something irreversible would have happened. This inner knowing caused me to pivot from my long, fruitful career in fundraising to helping people overcome a downbringing. While I worked to figure out this career change, I reflected on my past, and the core memories that surfaced made me realize two things.

    1. Young Paula’s mindset was rooted in self-loathing, and that blocked the better life I wanted.

    2. My self-loathing was the outcome of accepting the subjective opinions of others as facts.

    “Whoa,” I thought. “How simple yet so complex.”

    When I analyzed every aspect of my past existence, one word came to mind: slob. Physically speaking, I didn’t look like the stereotypical definition of a slob because I was very well put together and had excellent personal hygiene; however, I had neglected my brain hygiene for almost thirty years. It was corroded with filthy thoughts that nearly destroyed my life.

    “So, if I used to be a slob, what am I now?” As I thought through that, I came to the conclusion that what I had always wanted was better, but instead, I chose self-loathing because of how I viewed the world and my role in it. My newfound awareness led to the creation of two acronyms:

    • SLOB – Self-Loathing Overrides Better
    • SNOB – See New Objective Beliefs

    BAM! There it was—the perfect way to describe my transformation—from Thought Slob to Thought Snob. I had officially gotten above my raising.

    Awareness is the foundation of all change. When I started behaving with mindful awareness, I was able to interrupt thoughts that would turn into some crazy, scary story.

    Here is an example of how I used my Thought Snob method to reprogram my subconscious mind and train my brain to migrate away from negativity bias and toward thoughts and feelings that lifted me up instead of bringing me down.

    Before I met my husband, I had been alone for quite some time, healing from the tormented relationships I had tolerated and endured. During that time, I thought about what I had been taught as a child. Caring about a man is equated to being treated poorly.

    My awakening came from asking one question: Is this true? Always? Do all men treat women badly? Are all women punished for loving a man? The answer to all of these questions was a hard “NO!”

    I am telling you the moment I started viewing my life objectively (aka, looking at the facts), everything changed. I moved out of the hostile world I had always lived in into a loving world and sold that property I bought in Hell on Earth. I became so snobby with what I allowed my five senses to take in that I let go of 90% of the people, places, and things that had once helped create my identity.

    Bye, Felicia.

    Start here if your life isn’t how you want it to be. Examine your beliefs about the most important things to you. For demonstrative purposes only, let’s use money. If you’re broke and you desire wealth, what are your beliefs about money?

    Let’s say you discovered that you don’t believe you are capable of obtaining wealth because you were taught to believe that money was hard to come by. As you self-reflect, you find yourself feeling resentment toward wealthy people because you grew up in a household where people badmouthed the wealthy.

    Now, use SNOB and answer those questions objectively. For example, was it hard to come by when you received money for your birthday? No, it was easy.

    Are all wealthy people bad? No, they aren’t. The truth is, there are some wonderful wealthy people, and resentment comes from wanting what they have.

    Building self-awareness leads to asking self-reflection questions, and the answers that come reveal the culprit. The culprit is the lies you accepted as truths before your brain was fully developed. Those lies have controlled your behaviors, but here’s the good news.

    You’re an infinite choice-maker. At any moment, you can choose peace or hostility. That’s a fact.

    Here’s what I want you to do: Start practicing mindful awareness. Examine your whole life through an objective lens. When you see new objective beliefs, your self-loathing will no longer override better.

    Examine your life without judgment. You know where your beliefs came from. Show yourself tremendous compassion and move forward mindfully with a desire to change.

  • How I’m Navigating My Grief Since Losing My Father

    How I’m Navigating My Grief Since Losing My Father

    “Grief is the price we pay for love.” ~Queen Elizabeth II

    Losing a loved one is never easy, and when that loved one is a parent, the pain can feel insurmountable.

    Last August, I faced one of the most challenging moments of my life: My father, my rock and my confidant, passed away after a brave battle with cancer.

    As immigrants, my father and I shared a bond that was uniquely deep; we relied on each other for support, trust, and guidance in a new world. His wisdom shaped my life, and his strength inspired me daily. This is my story of grief, healing, and the steps I’ve taken to navigate this profound loss.

    Allow Natural Time to Grieve

    Grief is not a linear process; it ebbs and flows, demanding to be felt in its own time.

    My father spent his final days in palliative care, with my mother and me by his side. Watching him in pain, seeing the strongest person I knew slipping away, was heartbreaking. In that final week, I cried more than I had in my entire adulthood.

    His passing brought a mixture of relief—knowing he was no longer suffering—and numbness. In the weeks and months that followed, I allowed myself to feel everything: the disbelief, the anger, the guilt, and the remorse. Each emotion came naturally, and I let them flow. It’s essential to embrace these feelings rather than suppress them, as they are a crucial part of the healing process.

    Prioritizing Self-Care

    Throughout my life, I’ve been the caretaker, always ensuring everyone else was okay. This journey made me realize that I couldn’t continue to pour from an empty cup.

    I slowed down, took time off, and focused on self-care. I rediscovered activities that nourished my body, mind, and soul. Journaling became a therapeutic outlet, and practicing gratitude shifted my perspective. I indulged in spa days, kickboxing, and dancing, drank plenty of water, and tried meditation.

    Staying connected with nature, reading for pleasure, exploring Greek and Roman mythology, and making new friends brought joy and a sense of renewal. Learning a new language also became a way to stimulate my mind and create new memories.

    Seeking Help

    Reaching out for help can be daunting, but it’s an essential part of healing.

    I signed up for a digital health program that offered coaching and connected with friends who had experienced similar losses. While I haven’t yet felt ready to talk to a therapist, it’s something I plan to pursue in the near future. Supporting my mother, who is also navigating her grief, has taught me the power of vulnerability and the importance of accepting help from others.

    Keeping Busy

    Staying busy became a way to channel my energy and emotions positively. I engaged new clients, took new courses, moved to a new city, formed new professional and personal relationships, and even started a new business.

    Challenging myself professionally and personally helped me step out of my comfort zone while being gentle with myself. Understanding the finite nature of life has made me let go of societal expectations and focus on creating meaningful relationships and pursuing goals that truly resonate with me.

    Grateful for the Journey Together

    Above all, I am profoundly grateful for the journey I shared with my father. Not all families are as close as ours, and the bond we had was a true gift.

    My father’s resilience, strength, and street smarts have left an indelible mark on my life. He taught me to be cautious yet strong, resilient yet empathetic. His legacy lives on in the lessons he imparted and the love he gave.

    Grief is a complex, multifaceted experience, but it is also a testament to the depth of our love and humanity. As I continue on my healing journey, I carry my father’s wisdom and strength with me, knowing that he is always a part of me.

  • Breaking Free from the Shadow of a Narcissistic Parent

    Breaking Free from the Shadow of a Narcissistic Parent

    “One of the greatest awakenings comes when you realize that not everybody changes. Some people never change. And that’s their journey. It’s not yours to try to fix for them.” ~Unknown

    In the journey of life, we often encounter pivotal moments that force us to confront harsh truths about ourselves and the world around us. For me, one of these moments came with the profound realization that not everybody changes, especially not those who wield the toxic traits of narcissism.

    Raised by a father whose larger-than-life persona concealed a darker reality, I embarked on a journey of self-discovery marked by illusions shattered, wounds healed, and the enduring quest for authenticity.

    As a child, I idolized my father. He was the epitome of success in my eyes—charismatic, accomplished, and seemingly flawless. His love, however, came with conditions attached, contingent upon my athletic and academic achievements.

    Behind closed doors, his warmth turned to coldness, and his affection became a reward for meeting his standards of excellence. Meanwhile, my mother silently bore the brunt of his infidelities, her suffering hidden behind a facade of familial perfection.

    In this environment, I learned that abuse should remain unacknowledged and that the pursuit of outward appearances trumped the preservation of inner peace.

    As I navigated adulthood, the scars of my upbringing continued to shape my perceptions and behaviors.

    Seeking validation from partners who mirrored my father’s traits, I found myself trapped in a cycle of self-doubt and emotional turmoil. The quest for perfection, fueled by the belief that I was never good enough, became ingrained in my psyche. Each relationship seemed to reinforce the notion that love was conditional and that I was destined to repeat the patterns of my past.

    Amidst the darkness, a glimmer of hope emerged—a profound shift that propelled me toward a spiritual awakening. Desperate for solace, I delved into a myriad of healing modalities, immersing myself in practices that spoke to my soul.

    It was through these experiences that I began to peel back the layers of generational trauma, confronting the shadows that had long haunted my psyche. In the embrace of reiki, sound therapy, and crystal healing, I discovered a newfound sense of self—resilient, luminous, and unapologetically authentic.

    Buoyed by my personal growth, I embarked on a journey to reconnect with my estranged father and brother, hopeful that they too had undergone a transformation. Yet, my optimism was met with harsh reality as I found myself ensnared in familiar patterns of dysfunction.

    Despite my best efforts to bridge the chasm between us, I was met with resistance and disappointment. It was a stark reminder that not everyone evolves, and some wounds run too deep to heal.

    Amidst the depths of despair, as I teetered on the brink of losing myself entirely to depression and deteriorating health, a beacon of hope illuminated my path. It was in these moments of darkness that I realized the necessity of returning to basics—of carving out quiet moments for introspection and listening intently to the whispers of my higher self and the universe.

    What I heard was a resounding message echoing through the chambers of my soul: “This is the lesson. Every tumultuous relationship, every heartache, every moment of despair was but a precursor to this pivotal juncture.”

    With newfound resolve, I immersed myself in energetic healing and chakra alignment, allowing the vibrational frequencies of love and light to permeate every fiber of my being. And then, armed with courage and clarity, I made the decision to confront the specter of my past—my father.

    Summoning the strength of a thousand suns, I approached him not with anger or resentment, but with love. “I love you,” I uttered, the words heavy with the weight of years of longing and unspoken truths.

    His response was not one of reconciliation or remorse, but of rage. And in that moment, I realized the futility of seeking validation from a source so devoid of compassion and empathy. Yet, unlike before, his words failed to wound me to the core. For I had reclaimed my power, my sense of self, and my unwavering love for myself and my children. If anything, his outburst served as a testament to the depths of his own woundedness, a reflection of the pain he carried within.

    Do I think about that encounter often? Yes, I do. But not with regret or bitterness. Rather, with a sense of profound gratitude for the lessons it imparted. For in choosing to respond with love, I unwittingly severed the ties that bound me to his toxicity. And as he raged on, I stood tall, my heart brimming with a newfound sense of freedom and self-love.

    In the end, I realized that he was the lesson—a catalyst for my growth, a mirror reflecting back the parts of myself I needed to heal. And the work I had done, the journey I had embarked upon to counteract his behavior throughout my life, had prepared me for this moment of liberation.

    As he removed himself from my energetic field, I was left basking in the glow of newfound freedom, surrounded by the boundless love that radiated from within.

    To anyone grappling with the shadows of their past or the specter of a narcissistic parent, I offer this simple truth: You are stronger than you know, and you are deserving of love beyond measure. Embrace your journey with courage and compassion, knowing that every trial and tribulation is but a stepping stone on the path to self-discovery and healing. And remember, in the face of darkness, the light of your own love will always guide you home.

    In the crucible of adversity, I discovered the power of self-love and resilience. Through the trials and tribulations of my journey, I emerged stronger, wiser, and more attuned to the depths of my being.

    Though the road to healing may be fraught with obstacles, it is a journey worth embarking upon. For in the pursuit of authenticity lies the truest expression of our humanity—imperfect yet infinitely beautiful.

    To those who walk a similar path, I offer these words of solace: You are not alone. Though the shadows may loom large, know that within you resides the light of resilience and the power of self-discovery. Embrace your journey with courage and compassion, for it is through our darkest moments that we find the strength to shine brightest. And remember, the greatest awakening comes not from fixing others but from embracing ourselves in all our imperfect glory.

  • The Closure in Accepting That They May Never Change

    The Closure in Accepting That They May Never Change

    “One of the hardest things I’ve had to understand is that closure comes from within. Especially difficult if you’ve been betrayed by someone you love because you feel like you gotta let them know the pain they caused, but the peace you seek can only be given to you by you.” ~Bruna Nessif

    Many years ago, I wrote a very personal post for Tiny Buddha titled Get Past It Instead of Getting Even: Revenge Isn’t Winning.

    The post described the challenges I experienced with my parents as an adult and, ultimately, my decision to cease all relations with them.

    Such a decision was by no means easy or hastily made.

    It required many years of guidance and counseling to accept that sometimes such a drastic decision is necessary for maintaining one’s mental health and the health of other meaningful relationships.

    Over the years, I have experienced sharp criticism for that decision to dissociate from my parents. I’ve been branded an awful son, self-centered, and even a hypocrite based on my writings when compared to the reality of my familial relationship.

    I understand the criticisms because I once was on the opposite side of where I am now, with a seemingly perfect family relationship that others envied.

    I was quick to judge those estranged from their families with some of the same criticisms now cast at me.

    I was simply unable to fully grasp how it was possible that a bloodline connection could ever be severed, and how life could go on without their presence.

    But what we see often differs from reality, and perfection is unsustainable and unattainable when it comes to family relations. 

    Before you know it, you have transformed from the harshest critic to the pitiable object, constantly wondering how lifelong relationships could quickly deteriorate with such hatred and anger.

    But the passage of time, combined with age and life’s unending volatilities, alters one’s perception and relaxes the emotions we once believed would extinguish our joy, sanity, and quality of life.

    This new perspective is an unanticipated sensation after such a tumultuous experience, and suddenly, the word “closure” is no longer foreign to one’s vocabulary.

    An Attempt at Reconciliation

    It was early December, and homeownership again handed me an unexpected repair project in my kitchen. It appeared easy enough at first but became much more complicated once I understood the problem.

    Pausing momentarily to decide how best to proceed, given that a clever solution was necessary if I did not want to incur a hefty repair cost, I immediately began thinking about my father.

    Growing up, my father and I were incredibly close.

    We spent a great deal of time in each other’s company, sharing long conversations with him mentoring me on the mechanical skills he was so adept with.

    Sitting on my kitchen floor, lost in a sea of nostalgia, I realized how invaluable those conversations and his mentoring were. How other invaluable life lessons often sprouted from those conversations. And how, regardless of all that had occurred, I considered myself grateful that he was my father.

    As tears began pooling in my eyes, I decided I had to reach out to him at that moment, sharing my nostalgia and gratitude while naively hoping this might be the impetus we needed to reconnect.

    Fearing my mother would intercept any hard-copy communication, I turned to social media and sent him a private message through his Facebook page.

    My message to my father was 436 words long.

    At the start, I acknowledged how the passage of time and age softens our perspectives, lessens the bitterness, and enables us to see and appreciate things we took for granted in the past.

    I acknowledged how we all played a role in our eventual separation, how conversations could have been handled differently and more beneficially, and how blame at this point was futile.

    I reminisced about our relationship, his teachings, our obsession with car care, and how, regardless of our separation, the memories we shared would live in my heart and mind forever.

    It was sincere and sentimental, filled with a hopeful optimism about reconnecting with a person I have missed greatly over the years.

    I am unashamed to admit that after writing those 436 words and reviewing them several times afterward, I cried, not necessarily for the loss that I still bore, but over my capacity to look beyond this unhappy part of my past and attempt to reconcile it. 

    Closure Comes from Within

    For two weeks, I checked my Facebook account constantly, excited over the prospect of renewing our relationship.

    I understood that even if things did not turn out as I hoped, I was glad he knew how I was feeling and what I was thinking.

    Then, after two weeks and one day, on a sunny, fifty-degree afternoon in early December, my inbox alerted me that I had a response to my private Facebook message.

    I probably waited ten minutes before finally opening the message, hopeful that the passage of time, combined with age and life’s unending volatilities, had altered his perception and relaxed his emotions.

    Sadly, it had not.

    My father’s response was thirty-seven words long and void of all sentimentality.

    Narcissistic tendencies, the catalyst for our eventual separation, were still painfully evident in his opening sentence: “You have no idea what has happened to us, and I am not going to tell you.”

    His overall indifference toward the content of my message was obvious when he said, “Don’t play up to me,” which revealed his doubtfulness over my sincerity.

    Though short, his words were incredibly telling, confirming what I had feared and why I was so skeptical about reaching out to my parents earlier.

    Author Mandy Hale says it best: “To get over the past, you first have to accept that the past is over. No matter how many times you revisit it, analyze it, regret it or sweat it… it’s over. It can hurt you no more.”

    Though a decade and a half has passed, the past is very much a part of my parents’ present.

    Unexpected misfortunes like my father referenced often have a redemptive effect on an individual’s long-standing resentments, but they appear to have only intensified theirs.

    There has been no personal growth, no self-admissions, and no remorse of any kind. Honestly, I am astonished by their incapability.

    While I know many hurtful exchanges transpired between my parents and me, I have not allowed them to define my past or clutter my present. I do not want to be a victim but rather a witness to a mishandled situation that belongs in the past.

    My parents, on the other hand, have branded themselves “the victims” for so long while manipulating the narrative to suit that claim that I am not even sure they know what the truth is any longer, and that is a very sad place to find oneself. 

    Several days after receiving my father’s short response, I thought I would be overcome with sadness and grief, immobilized by the realization that my family would never be whole again.

    But something unexpected occurred instead.

    I began to feel at peace.

    While not the ideal conclusion, the situation has now been resolved.

    I will no longer feel guilty about not trying to reconcile, no longer question if my father is missing our relationship or not, and no longer crave an outcome that I now understand is impossible.

    And so, I can finally and definitively assign closure to the unfortunate end of my familial relationship.

    Did I want my situation to turn out differently? Of course.

    But meaningful relationships cannot be sustained by living in a questionable past while refusing to acknowledge any failings that need to be remedied.

    Regardless of who is at fault, I encourage anyone in similar circumstances to reach out to those whose presence still lingers in their heart and minds.

    I do not encourage this solely as a possibility for reconciliation, but rather for the ability to find peace in the truth, whether good, bad, or indifferent.

    Closure often springs from the acceptance of that truth and the understanding that healing can still occur even if our efforts are not reciprocated.

  • How I Found My Worth in Spite of My Father’s Abandonment

    How I Found My Worth in Spite of My Father’s Abandonment

    “Because if I myself saw my worth, I wouldn’t base my worthiness on someone else’s seeing it.” ~Unknown

    I can’t be sure which title I would have preferred. Daddy, Poppa, Pa, Dad. Aren’t these the endearing titles one earns when they live up to all that it means in the role of the first and most important man in a little girl’s life?

    The one who she can count on for love, guidance, comfort, and safety. The one who she adores. The one who teaches her how to play soccer or baseball because she is a tomboy through and through. The one who allows her to put makeup on his face or to have tea parties with him at a table entirely too small for his stature. The one who tells her the best bedtime stories that leave her feeling safe from the boogeyman living under her bed.

    The one who sets the standard when she finds the love of her life.

    From all that I have heard, they are the ones who are something special and to be treasured.

    Mine, on the other hand, not so much. Let us then call him the sperm donor. Fitting since it’s the only role he’s played in my life. When one walks out on his wife and two little girls, the older, age three and the younger, age one (that’s me), offering no support, financial, emotional, or otherwise, he’s earned that title.

    Bless your black little heart.

    Maybe this all makes me sound harsh or bitter. That’s because I was, for a really long time.

    And with that came all the issues: abandonment, people-pleasing, anxiety, lack of confidence and self-esteem. Choosing partners who didn’t respect me because I didn’t respect myself. Drinking and feeling regret over things I may have said or done that could have hurt other people. Always second-guessing myself and my choices because I didn’t trust myself to make my own decisions.

    I became my own worst enemy, consistently and constantly beating myself up for anything and everything, and I filled my head with toxic thoughts about my worth that I believed were truths. Truths I lacked any ability to refute.

    I needed constant validation and approval, and a steady stream of input from others dictating my life. I did not know who the heck I was or how to be true to myself. I spent many years trying to make sense of it all, and the more I tried, the more I suffered.

    I hated the fact that I grew up without a father. I hated everything about it. And for so long, I let it define who I was.

    Fast-forward to the second half of my life. After a series of difficult events, including a devastating breakup around my fiftieth birthday and the more recent unexpected death of my mother, the only parent I had ever known (with whom I shared a tumultuous, roller coaster relationship), I became sick of myself and who I had allowed myself to become.

    How could I expect my own kids to grow into confident, kind, respectful adults if I was not setting the example? “Get it together, Charlene. Do it for them, and once and for all, do it for yourself!”

    That was the pivotal time in my life that triggered the light switch for me. It was as if I was given a second chance and an opportunity to gain the clarity I needed to become exactly who I wanted to be as a person and as a mom.

    I knew three things: it would take work, it would not happen overnight, and it would not feel good. It didn’t matter. I had made up my mind. I knew, first and foremost, I needed to find a way to forgive myself—for allowing my past to define my life, for my holding so much resentment toward my mother, and my own struggles as a mother after my divorce.

    I spent time initially with my three amigos. Me, myself, and I. We got to know each other very well before shortly meeting up with my baggage. We all sat together most days in our group therapy sessions, and we went back. Way back. We rehashed our lives and all the unpleasant and unflattering times. We sat often, in silence and in our stench. We did this for as long as it took until we could look in the mirror and see the person we could love and be proud of. 

    It was not pleasant. It was not easy. And it was most definitely not fun. But it was worth it.

    We, the four amigos (baggage included), were worth it.

    I slowly allowed myself some grace and became kinder and gentler to myself.

    Each day, I drove the short distance home from work on my lunch hour, hopping on my bike and looking for something, anything, to be grateful for… a bird or a butterfly in flight, the sunlight glistening on the water, a stone on the pavement in the shape of a heart, the sound of children laughing in the playground.

    I flooded my email inbox and social media feeds with daily happiness reminders (Tiny Buddha being one of them), and I devoured anything resembling positivity. I committed myself to healing my broken heart and rewiring my broken brain. Rather than focusing on my flaws and perceived imperfections, I uncovered everything wonderful and unique about myself—my courage, my passion, my honesty, my empathy, and my own role as a mother.

    I took my days minute by minute and inched my way forward.

    Baby steps.

    I will turn fifty-nine this year. Far closer to sixty than I am to fifty, back when the “you know what” started hitting the fan for me. When I think back to what my life looked like back then and all the worries and fears I had about what direction I was heading, I feel a sense of sadness.

    Time is this funny thing when you are in the second half of the game (of life). While I don’t dwell too much on regrets, my age, or how much time I have left, I would be lying if I said I have not thought about the time I wasted anguishing over my bruised ego and the hell I put myself through for so long.

    It is time I cannot get back.

    But today, I can say that I am proud of myself, and I give myself some credit…

    For overcoming my feelings of inadequacy and not being enough.

    For realizing that I am not lesser because of my flaws and imperfections, or because I grew up fatherless, in a trailer park, and do not have a four-year college degree.

    For having the courage and strength to walk my own path, even when the steps were terrifying and uncertain.

    Today, I am good.

    Good as in I can wake up and look in the mirror and like who I see. I could use a few less lines on my face, but I continue to learn how to embrace the whole package that is me. I can beat myself up and throw a good pity party once in a while, but I usually catch myself in the process.

    Sometimes it takes a few minutes, sometimes a day or two. Just depends.

    Either way, I have to sit the little girl inside me down and give her a reminder… to relax her shoulders, close her eyes, take a few deep breaths, and remember who the hell she is and just how far she has come.

    Today, I am still under construction, and I have been single and on my own for eight years. I was broken for a very long time, and I knew I needed to work on my inability to love and respect myself and rebuild the shattered parts of myself before I could entertain a relationship again. But I believe there are no mistakes. I think the stars aligned exactly as they needed to for me.

    If you can relate to any part of my story, I hope you find the strength and courage to dig deep and recognize where your lack of self-worth originated and discover all that is so wonderful and valuable about you.

    Regardless of your circumstances or how anyone might have treated you in the past, you are worthy of your own love, just as I am.

  • 7 Lessons from My Father That Have Made Me a Better, Happier Person

    7 Lessons from My Father That Have Made Me a Better, Happier Person

    “A father is neither an anchor to hold us back, nor a sail to take us there, but a guiding light whose love shows us the way.” ~Unknown

    I couldn’t understand his grateful mindset, especially given his obvious rapid decline. My dad was dying. None of us could reconcile a life without our mentor, hero, spouse, brother, uncle, friend, and champion of cheesy dinner table games.

    But it was coming, and we all knew it. Still, he’d tell us he’s “counting his blessings, not his struggles.” This from a man with a failing liver and ammonia on his brain.

    When that fateful morning arrived, my mom and I were in direct alignment with him. We’d stayed by his bedside all night, watching for any changes to his breathing. It seemed to settle—at least, the rattle was gone. Soon, we were also unable to breathe as we watched him slip away to his next chapter.

    He didn’t really look like himself, but he looked peaceful. I felt an immediate panic that I’d left unanswered questions on the table. About his past. About my grandparents that I never knew. About how to maneuver through an uncertain future… Do we lock in for the longer-term mortgage rate? Do we renovate the house now, never or in a few years? Do we pull our kid out of school for an epic family adventure?

    Dad would know these things.

    Despite my aching heart, I’ve realized over the last few months that my dad left us with a legacy of Golden Rules. These will pop into my head randomly, but sometimes I wonder… It seems whenever I long for his wisdom, I hear his voice whispering:

    “Count your blessings, not your struggles.”

    Easier said than done, right? But we can all find something to be cheerful about. My dad weathered deep pain in his last month of life. His leg cramps were the worst! It was torture to see him suffer, but more torturous to witness his declining cognitive function.

    Because my dad was a capable, super-human of a man. He built companies from nothing, organized events to support our city, and could relate to anyone he ever met. To watch him struggle with his phone, and to hear his slurred, slowed-down speech, killed me. And yet… Even ten days before his last day on earth, he continued to believe he was lucky.

    “If it weren’t for my liver disease, I wouldn’t have all these check-ins by my grandkids!” 

    “If it weren’t for the ammonia on my brain, I wouldn’t have had all this extra time with you, Sammy.” (I’d taken a leave of absence from my serving job to be more available.)

    His courageous outlook inspires me to do better. Instead of lamenting my long list of grievances, I can choose to focus on the good in my life. I’m healthy. My kids still think I’m cool. My husband supports my new business gig. I’ve let my gray grow in and have been told it’s not “that cringy.” I believe in myself. I have a lot to be grateful for.

    “You can’t teach a lamb to bark.”

    For years, I tried to mold my youngest daughter into the person I thought would be her best self. I fought her incessant quest to be online, even though she had some prodigious knack for beating all the levels in her games. I pushed playdates on her, because they seemed “age-appropriate” and a “better use” of her time when all she wanted was to be alone.

    I’d lecture her on speaking up; I’d answer for her whenever adults put her on the spot; I’d correct her sometimes quirky behaviour; I’d badger her for not opening up to me.

    The list goes on.

    One day, for reasons related to my nephew and not my daughter, my dad politely informed the family that “you can’t teach a lamb to bark.” It took us a beat, but then it sunk in.

    My kid is an introvert. She should not be shamed into behaving more gregariously. My kid likes gaming, and she’s good at it. Why should I take that away from her if we have some healthy boundaries in place? She doesn’t want to be forced into social situations just because other kids her age want that. My kid is a lamb. I should not expect her to bark.

    “Sit on an emotional email for a day or two.”

    This rule saved my bacon countless times over my sixteen-year career in finance. In the heat of some frustrating situation—often defied by any sense of logic—I’d craft seething emails to send to our head office. In my rookie years, I sent some of them and regretted the fallout immediately.

    Having an emotional response to disappointing news is a natural reaction; it’s part of our humanity to feel. But he would always say, “Sammy, imagine your email is printed on the front page of the Globe & Mail [our national newspaper]. Make sure you’ve digested everything first and given yourself the space to think critically.”

    His technique led to dozens of phone calls rather than heat-infused emails whose tone could potentially be misinterpreted. Or I’d sit on them and just never hit send, later realizing, my knee-jerk reaction would have set off a chain of even more difficult situations I’d rather avoid.

    Then there were those that I would send. I’m proud of them… because I was able to express myself from a place of patience, time, and space. Our initial reaction to things does not always end up as the final say.

    “No amount of past trauma can hold you back if you can forgive and find purpose.”

    As a young boy, my dad was molested by a close family member for years. He repressed this abuse, until one day, the world he built to hide his unconscious pain crashed down on all of us.

    The details are difficult to relive. He was accused of some terrible things. He lost his high-powered position in finance. He’d been living a double life, fighting a sex addiction that had manifested out of his childhood trauma. Something none of us, including him, knew anything about. I was eighteen at the time. I thought for sure my mom would leave him. I remember thinking we would lose the house, and that there could be no way through this.

    When his hidden truth rose to the surface, he began to dig into his past and we watched him fight to keep the family together; rebuilding, restoring, and recovering. In his quest to prove himself worthy, he took on a new purpose. He was not going to let his past define him. He was going to forgive. And he was going to help other male survivors of sexual abuse.

    It was hard for us to watch him speak so candidly about his addiction and past. But the more open he was in his speaking engagements, the more courage he passed onto others who’d been suffering in silence. To witness my father rise above and advocate so passionately has taught me the greatest life lesson around: we have more power than we realize.  

    If we don’t like the chapter we’ve written, we can start a new one. We can make productive choices to use our pain in the service of others. We do not need to stay victimized.

    “Just say the truth.”

    If I had a dollar for every time I pulled my dad’s sleeve and asked, “What should I say to this person, Dad?” I’d have a lot of extra dollars! It used to annoy the Bejesus out of me, because his blunt reply seemed to come without any actual consideration.

    One day early in my career, I was in “a slump.” I hadn’t managed to secure any prospect meetings in weeks and was feeling lousy about myself. Desperation exuded out my pores. I did have one appointment coming in, though; he was a friend of a friend. But I thought for sure he’d already have his financial ducks in a row. He was a doctor, after all.

    About an hour before the meeting, the sweat stains began to show through my tailored navy blazer. What could little old me possibly do to help this guy? I was certain our mutual friend had called in a favor to get him to meet with me.

    “Dad, what do I even say to him?”

    “Just say the truth.”

    “That I’m a rookie and nervous to meet him?”

    “Yup.”

    “Not helpful, Dad.”

    As it turned out, I went with his whole “say the truth” guidance, which seemed to immediately disarm this nice man. And as that turned out, he gave me a chance to review the plans he had in place. I wound up saving him money and replacing his unreliable ‘parachute’ with a more airtight solution.

    My relationship with this client eventually morphed into a specialization in looking after physicians’ insurance needs. He told me it was my down-to-earth nature and zero “know-it-all” attitude that led him to trust me.

    Since then, I come back to this favorite line of Dad’s anytime I begin to concoct an excuse for backing out of plans. It’s easier to say it like it is: “I bit off more than I can chew; can we reschedule?”

    “You can’t steal second without leaving first.”

    That was my dad’s shortened version of the Frederick B. Wilcox quote, “Progress always involves risk; you can’t steal second base and keep your foot on first.” Dad loved a good baseball analogy!

    I’ve applied this to my life countless times when mulling over whether to take a chance. I used it when I was twenty-four, after being dumped by my fiancé just months before our wedding. Ended up dragging my sad ass to the city we were going to start our lives in, without having secured a job. I told myself I was young and had nothing to lose. That I’d figure it out. And I did.

    I used it when my husband and I opted for expensive fertility treatments. We knew it was a crapshoot, but we wanted another child. On the other hand, the money we had set aside made us feel secure. Thank God we took that chance. Our little Saffron was born nine months and two weeks later.

    The highest stakes use of this mantra came when I began to dread going into work several years ago. I felt like a hamster on the treadmill, always under pressure and in hot pursuit of a carrot I could never reach. If it wasn’t my insomnia, the leaking left eye and chronic stomach aches were enough to tell me something needed to change.

    I’d had dreams for the future, but no real battleplan. I knew, however, if I sold my business, I’d have a little runway to try my hand at reinventing myself. Still, I clung tightly to security. I was the main breadwinner and couldn’t be so foolish.

    I ended up walking away, deciding life was too short to hate my Monday through Friday for another fifteen, twenty years. Others had managed to reinvent themselves. Surely, I could, too.

    That chapter in the Book of Sam is still unfolding, and I don’t consider my reinvention reckless. I consider it vital to my life force. If I’d kept my foot on first base, I’d still be there… looking off in the distance at second… wondering if I could make it. That wondering would haunt me. I’d rather know I tried than skip it altogether.

    “Don’t wait until funerals to tell people they’re special.”

    More than a decade ago, a friend of ours lost his battle with cancer. He was a legend in the business and a close pal of my dad’s. He lived in another city, and though we’d meet for focus groups once a year, we regretted not having the chance to tell him how special he was.

    When Randy died, Dad took immediate action. He invited some clients over for a dinner at his and my mom’s home, motivated to seize the day. At first, I thought it was bizarre he’d bought these wigs and weird hats at some costume store, insisting we all don something ridiculous while we ate our meal.

    But when that client was killed in a plane crash a few months later, I finally got the message. We cannot wait to let someone know they matter.

    On December 2nd, 2019, I walked into a so-called ‘networking’ event thinking, “Just a few more of these and then this career and I are done!” Instead, it was a surprise retirement party,” hosted by my dad, in honor of me.

    I was floored. Instead of thinking about himself and the impact my leaving would have on his succession plan, my dad got busy concocting a farewell party. He flew in my sister from out west. Colleagues from down east. Clients were there. He managed to assemble every special person in my life, and I spent the evening listening to people tell me that I mattered.

    It was like a reverse funeral. Let’s call it, the death of my career… cheered on by those I loved and had helped in my years as a financial advisor. I could cry thinking about the effort he put into this special evening.

    If my dad were alive right now, I think he’d be proud to know these lessons have sunk in. But just like you, I’m a work in progress. I’ll be needing his guidance as I continue to walk my new path. So, to all the dads that have shown up for their children, thank you. Not everyone has had this blessing in their life.

  • How I Healed from the Trauma of My Father’s Abandonment

    How I Healed from the Trauma of My Father’s Abandonment

    “When another person makes you suffer, it is because he suffers deeply within himself, and his suffering is spilling over. He does not need punishment; he needs help. That’s the message he is sending.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh

    When I was fifteen years old, my dad abandoned my mother, younger sister, and me after a bankruptcy. My mother sat me down at the kitchen table to show me our financial situation scribbled on a yellow legal pad.

    Dad left us with six months of unpaid rent. The landlord threatened us with eviction until mom made a deal to pay extra rent every month to pay off the balance. He agreed to let us live there under those terms.

    Dad’s abandonment included disappearing with everything we had of any value. He took our music, art, records—everything that made the place a home. He even took the blender.

    My mother’s secretarial job covered our housing, car payment, and other bills, but we would run out of money the last week of the month. I would need to find a way to make up the difference.

    My father’s larger-than-life personality made him the center of our universe. With no education, training, or experience, he produced movies, invented a tripod, opened a furniture store, and made a training video for golfers.

    Every few months, a new business occupied his passion. The three of us were lightless planets revolving around his flaming sun. After he left, the absence of his gravity left us spinning.

    My little sister and I walked the neighborhood looking for babysitting, house cleaning, lawn mowing, and car washing jobs. Nobody has money to pay kids to do odd jobs in poor communities. We each picked up one babysitting job for one night—nothing regular.

    One day I answered an ad for a telephone solicitor job a mile and a half from our home. If I made seven sales in two four-hour shifts, they would hire me for a salary plus commission job. At fifteen, I looked thirteen but said I was sixteen.

    I made my seventh sale and felt victorious. We were going to be okay. Instead, the manager told me that one of my sales canceled, so I would not get the job. I had worked from 5 p.m. to 9 p.m. for two days and didn’t get paid a dime. (I would later learn that the company owners stood trial for profiting from unpaid underage labor).

    I walked home crying in the dark. A man in a black car pulled over and offered me a ride. He looked me up and down with a glazed-eyed hunger. I ran across the street and the rest of the way home. The walls of my interior crumbled. I felt my first awareness of the impermanence of all things. I had become a refugee in my hometown.

    Our family of three survived the poverty of financial limits. We made it out. However, the deprivation of abandonment cut more deeply.

    Abandonment, at any age, leaves one gobsmacked by the cold awareness that someone you love no longer cares if you’re dead or alive. You’ve been rendered irrelevant to someone who once benefited from your loving affection. You feel discarded like yesterday’s trash.

    You’re never the same person once you know that someone you love can walk away and not look back. You have eaten from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. It is a knowing that lives in your bones forever. The poverty of an abandoned heart is hard to shake.

    Therapists talk about “fear of abandonment” as if it were a form of phobic anxiety, like arachnophobia, the irrational fear of spiders. My mother, sister, and I were not left with a fear of abandonment. We were left abandoned.

    When someone is shot with a gun and survives, we don’t tell them they have a “fear of guns.” We call it trauma. The pain lives in the wound. The scars tangible.

    Abandonment by someone we love is relational injury, like being shot to pieces but with no visible scars. Neuropsychologists found that losing someone we love activates pain receptors in the brain. It physically hurts. We suffer symptoms akin to opiate withdrawal.

    Like opiate recovery, eventually, the pain subsides. New experiences offer us hope for relational healing. We learn to love again. Like a soothing balm over a burn wound, love can ease that pain. The nerve endings calm down. Happiness reappears.

    Relational trauma changes the brain. We can experience a thinning in two parts of the brain. One part processes self-awareness (the prefrontal cortex), and the other helps us process and cope with our emotions (the medial temporal lobe). These changes can make us prone to anxiety and depression.

    Both of my parents were abandoned by their fathers as toddlers. My father displayed extreme polarities of emotion, manic bursts of enterprising energy, followed by depressed inactivity. My mother periodically experienced depression, followed by long periods of recovery.

    Trauma changes us on a cellular level and can linger like a ghost memory for generations. The ghosts of intergenerational suffering haunt many families. If you endure, suffering leads to wisdom. Wisdom leads to the alleviation of suffering.

    From suffering we gain: The wisdom of resourcefulness. The confident armor of a survivor. The cellular knowledge that security is an illusion. The ability to bring our own peace to the potluck. The instinct to protect our precious hearts. 

    I had to attempt new things after each failure on my road to healing. Children are naturally self-centered and feel responsible for the bad things that happen to them. The child believes “If I feel bad, I am bad.” With maturity, we learn to differentiate between what our parents bear responsibility for and our own adult responsibilities. I began to recognize that my father’s decision to leave us had nothing to do with us. He chose to abandon responsibility for his family due to his own failures and weaknesses, not ours.

    As I matured emotionally, it became clear that if I wanted a better life I had to make better choices. After several relationships with men who feared commitment and didn’t love me, I made the healthy decision to no longer find that type of man attractive.

    Necessity made me a seeker of opportunity. I sought out tools to help me cope. Here’s what I found helpful:

    • Meditation: At sixteen, I learned how to meditate. I believe that saved me from clinical depression and crippling anxiety. Meditation can repair the damage to the brain stemming from trauma. It provides the experience of non-judging, calm awareness.
    • Friendships: Friendships opened new worlds to me. Friends acted as lateral mentors and taught me how to play guitar, drive, write a resume, and apply to college.
    • Love: Finding loving relationships helped heal the sting of worthlessness. Watching other loving couples served as models for what was possible.
    • Meaning and purpose: Volunteer work, a life of service as a psychotherapist, raising a family, and commitment to a purpose beyond personal ambition increased my happiness and resilience.
    • Compassion: My parents had children at a very young age. They, too, suffered abandonment and loss. I feel compassion for my father’s loss and for what he lost in leaving us. Compassion heals.
    • Gratitude: I’m grateful for my small family and what we built from the rubble. My sister and I raised healthy children who feel secure, having never endured poverty of resources, or abandonment. We broke the transgenerational pattern.

    Today, when our family gathers, I watch our two grandsons play with their pups in the grassy garden. Their father, our oldest, watches the toddlers with alert protectiveness. My husband gives the boys horsey rides on his back to squeals of delight. Our daughter-in-law prepares a lovely meal with fresh produce from their abundant garden. Our other son performs a funny dance eliciting giggles from his nephews. Our daughter and her husband join in an improvised comedy routine to keep the fun going. We savor the meal as the sun slowly sets.

    Love wins.

  • The Day I Found Out from the Internet my Estranged Father Had Died

    The Day I Found Out from the Internet my Estranged Father Had Died

    “The scars you can’t see are the hardest to heal.” ~Astrid Alauda

    On a lazy Sunday morning as I lounged in bed, I picked up my phone, scrolled through my news feed on Facebook, and decided to Google my parents’ names.

    I am estranged from my parents, and I have not had much of a relationship with them in over fifteen years; however, there’s a part of me that will always care about them.

    I Googled my mother’s name first and found the usual articles about her dance classes, and her name on church and community bulletin boards. From what I was able to find, it appeared she was doing well.

    Then I went on to Google my father’s name. The first item I came across was an obituary posted on the website of a business that provides cremation and burial services. However, there was no actual obituary, only a few pictures of a much younger man and a profile of a much older man.

    Was this my dad’s obituary? It couldn’t be, could it? In shock, I convinced myself that it wasn’t his obituary, but I could not shake the nagging feeling that it was.

    For the last month I had a feeling that something was off, that something terrible had happened or was going to happen. At the time I attributed these feelings to work stress and the global pandemic.

    When I learned of the death of one of my mentors, who had been like a father to me, I attributed these feelings to this experience. Could I have been wrong?

    Later that morning I decided to search for my dad’s name in the obituary section of the online local paper. His name came up instantly, and much to my horror, this was how I learned about his death.

    Shock washed over me as I read the obituary. He had been dead for a month when I began having those intense, unsettling feelings of foreboding, as if something terrible had happened. It all made sense.

    My full name, which I had legally changed several years ago, was mentioned in the obituary under his surviving relatives, which quickly turned my feelings of shock into rage. Did my family think that I didn’t care about him? Did they think that I didn’t have a right to know about his death?

    I reached out to members of my estranged support group only to learn that many others had found out about a parent’s passing in the same manner.

    Years earlier I had feared that I might find out about one of my parents passing through Google; however, I had dismissed the fear and forced myself to believe that someone in my family would tell me if one of my parents had passed.

    In the days and weeks that followed I continued to Google my dad’s name. As I read tributes written by friends and other family members, I was hit with the realization that I did not know the person they were describing.

    He was described as a “simple religious man who was a welcoming neighbor, a devoted friend, family man, and an excellent father.” To me, however, he was none of those things, and as I continued to read the tributes, sadness and anger washed over me, and I was forced to reflect on the painful relationship that I’d had with him.

    In kindergarten I remember him telling me over and over, “You are as dumb as a post.” Later, after a visit to see his father, he repeated his father’s hurtful words, “You’re a wild hair, and you’re going to come to a sad end.”

    He continued to repeat these words on a regular basis throughout our relationship. Every mistake I made was met with harsh judgements, such as “You will never be good at that, you were just wasting your time, you were never going to amount to anything.”

    When I failed, he rubbed my failures in my face, and to this day failure is one of my greatest fears despite becoming a somewhat successful professional and academic.

    Time and time again, he told me:

    “It would be much easier to care about you if you did well with your studies.”

    “You’re illiterate, you’re a delinquent, you’re a dunce, and you are an embarrassment.”

    “You are never going to amount anything; you are going to end up working a minimum-wage job with angry, stupid people.”

    “You are fat, you are lazy, you are unfocused, and you are wasting your time with that stupid piano; you will never amount anything with that hammering.”

    After I broke up with my first serious boyfriend, my father told me, “What do you expect? A person like you is naturally going to have problems with their relationships, I fully expect you to have serious problems in your marriage as well.”

    When I was preparing to move away to go to university, he told me, “When you flunk out, don’t expect to come back here, just find a minimum-wage job and support yourself.”

    It’s taken me years to realize that comments like these are verbal abuse!

    Verbal abuse can be disguised in the form of a parent insulting a child to do better, to push themselves to be more, to lose weight, or enter a particular field. It can be disguised as caring or wanting to push someone to be a better version of themselves. Regardless of the parent’s motive, insults and put-downs are, in fact, verbal abuse, and no number of justifications can change this.

    Verbal abuse can have devastating effects on a child’s life, and these effects can be felt well into adulthood.

    Throughout my childhood and into my teens, my parents’ abusive comments caused me to believe that no one would want me and that I was not good enough for anyone. This limiting belief inhibited my ability to form friendships. As a result, I spent much of my childhood and my teens alone, playing the piano or spending time with my pets.

    The friendships that I did form were often one-sided because I made it very easy for people to take advantage of me, because I believed that I had to give and give in order to be worthy of the friendship.

    I also feared failure more than anything else and became very anxious in any environment where I might fail. This inhibited me from trying new things, and I only engaged in activities I knew I was good at.

    It was not until my mid-teens that I met a mentor who not only saw my work but loved me and nurtured me as if I was his own daughter. For the very first time in my life, I had an adult to support me apart from my grandmother and my grandfather, who believed in me and reminded me every day of my value and my abilities.

    “You are good, you are smart and highly intelligent, you’re capable of doing anything you set your sights on,” he would tell me. At first, I did not believe him, but in time I slowly began to see myself through his eyes.

    He talked to me the way a loving parent would have. When I failed, he didn’t make fun of me; instead, he encouraged me to reflect on what I’d learned from the experience and how I could do better in the future.

    He instilled in me the foundation of shaky self-confidence that enabled me to have the courage to apply to university. Without this relationship, I would likely not be where I am today because I would not have had the courage to break free from the verbally abusive narrative my parents had taught me to believe, or to challenge this narrative.

    As I was reading attributes about my father in tributes from people who knew him, I was filled with a sense of longing. Had my dad been the man who was described in those tributes we could have had a healthy relationship, and I would not have had to make the painful decision to cut him out of my life.

    At the same time, these tributes forced me to accept that we are many things to different people. To some people we are a wonderful friend, a kind neighbor, and a loving parent, but to others we are a rude jerk, a self-centered person, and verbally abusive or neglectful parent. Each one of us has the right to remember the dead as they experienced them and honor their memory as we see fit.

    Years after cutting my parents out of my life I silently forgave them for the hurt they had caused me, and I worked to let go of the pain from the past. However, at times, I found myself fantasizing about what a healthy adult relationship could look like with my father.

    I imagined mutually respectful philosophical discussions, long walks, trips to far off places, and most importantly, being seen not as an unlovable failure, but as a successful adult worthy of love and acceptance.

    My last conversation with my father before my grandmother had passed away was positive, which only fueled these fantasies. Yet in these fits of fantasy, I was forced to accept my father for who he was and acknowledge the painful fact that some people are just not capable being who we need them to be.

    We can choose to plead for a relationship that will never be, or for the person to be something they are not, or we can choose to accept them as they are and accept ourselves in spite of their abuse. But this means we must let go and accept that the future holds time we can never have together.

  • The Magic of Rewriting Our Most Painful Stories

    The Magic of Rewriting Our Most Painful Stories

    “When you bring peace to your past, you can move forward to your future.” ~Unknown

    It amazes me how things that happen in our childhood can greatly impact our adult lives. I learned the hard way that I was living my life with a deep wound in my heart.

    My father was a very strict man with a temper when I was little, starting when I was around seven years old.

    He had a way of making me feel like all my efforts were not enough. If I scored an 8 in a math exam, he would say, “Why 8 and not 10?” and then punish me. It was a time when some parents thought that beating their children was a way to “put them in place” and teach them a lesson. All this taught me, though, was that I was a disappointment.

    His favorite phrase was “You will never be better than me.”

    As I got older, his temper cooled down a bit, but one thing didn’t change: his painful remarks. “At your age, I was already married, had a house, a car, two daughters, and a piece of land… what have YOU accomplished? See? You will never surpass me.”

    It was his way of “inspiring me” to do better with my life, but it had the opposite effect on me. It was slowly killing my self-esteem.

    When my father passed away, I was seven-year-old Cerise all over again. At the funeral, I asked him, “Daddy, did I finally make you proud? Did I do good with my life?”

    This was the trigger that made me rethink what I was doing with my life. I had to stop for a moment to look at the past. This can be very difficult to do, but sometimes we need to face those painful events in order to understand the nature of our poor decisions and behavior.

    It helped me realize that, unconsciously, I was looking for my father’s approval in the guys I dated. And you know what? It got me nothing but disappointment and heartache, because I was looking for something that they couldn’t give me.

    Inside, I was still that little girl looking for her father’s love.

    When you are a child, you are considered a victim, but when you are a grown up, it is your duty to heal from what was done to you. You just can’t go through life feeling sorry for yourself and complaining about the hand you were dealt. This just keeps you stuck in a sad, joyless life and jeopardizes your relationships.

    In my case, I had to give that little girl the love she so needed in order to stop feeling lonely and stop making the same mistakes.

    The only approval that I needed was my own! When I realized that, I started learning to love myself—regardless of my accomplishments—and I also developed compassion toward my father because I recognized that he was raised the same way he raised me.

    He probably also felt he needed to be the best at everything he did in order to win his parents’ approval. And maybe he thought if I wasn’t the best at everything I did I would never be valued or loved by anyone else.

    Understanding this enabled me to forgive him, break the cycle, and finally let him go.

    So, what makes us slaves to anger, resentment, and abandonment issues? I think it’s the way we keep telling the story in our heads, and this is something that we can transform.

    Don’t get me wrong, I am not suggesting we sweep things under the rug and pretend like nothing happened. We cannot change the past, and certainly we cannot turn a blind eye to it, but we can modify the way we retell the story to ourselves, and this can be a step toward inner healing.

    I decided to give the difficult parts of my childhood experience another meaning. I edited the way I tell myself the story, and this is how it sounds now:

    “My father was a strict man because he wanted me to succeed in life. He taught me to give my best in every task assigned to me; he didn’t make things easier for me because he wanted me to become strong in character and to find a solution in every situation. Daddy constantly challenged me because he wanted me to develop my potential to the fullest so I could face life and its difficulties.

    I’m certain that when my father departed from this world, he did it in peace knowing that he left behind a strong and brave daughter.”

    This is now the story of my childhood, and you know what? I think I like this version better! It’s helped me close the wound I had in my heart. My childhood left a scar, but it’s not hurting anymore.

    My gift to you today is this: Close your eyes and picture a pencil. Do you know why a pencil has an eraser? To remove the things we don’t like, giving us the freedom to rewrite them into something that we feel more comfortable with.

    You can’t change the facts from your past, but you can change how you interpret them, so feel rewrite as much as you need.

    Your wounds will hurt a lot less when you broaden your perspective, try to understand the people who hurt you, and change the meaning of what you’ve been through.

  • Healing from the Conflicting Loss of a Difficult Parent

    Healing from the Conflicting Loss of a Difficult Parent

    “Deep grief sometimes is almost like a specific location, a coordinate on a map of time. When you are standing in that forest of sorrow, you cannot imagine that you could ever find your way to a better place. But if someone can assure you that they themselves have stood in that same place, and now have moved on, sometimes this will bring hope.” ~Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

    I had a tumultuous and interesting relationship with my father. He was a strong, proud man in his spirit as well as in his physical appearance. In my younger years, I knew my father as the final disciplinarian, the breadwinner, and the patriarch of the family. Even at a young age, I felt disconnected from him and did not agree with his harsh parenting choices.

    While I do not want to speak too much ill of my deceased father, to put it lightly, he was not always the most sensitive individual regarding other people’s emotions or thoughts.

    Perhaps it was my father’s past filled with deep hurt from abuse and alcoholism in childhood. Maybe it was the manipulation techniques he learned being a psychologist to control people. Either way, abuse, particularly emotional abuse, ran rampant in my home.

    During my senior year of high school, he was diagnosed with a serious, life-changing illness. When his job laid him off due to his failing health, his decline became even steeper. My father, the man who was the epitome of control and strength in my family, lost control of all bodily functions and became very frail and fragile.

    Tasks considered elementary or simple became very hard due to his disease. Activities such as unbuttoning buttons, writing a letter, or eating became very difficult. He started to have severe, deep hallucinations, and his weight started to drop rapidly. These are just a few of the many symptoms his disease caused.

    The year before he died, I took a gap year between high school and college to help my mom take care of him. Due to this, I experienced his journey through sickness and death very closely. That year was the “year from hell.”

    Not only was I helping taking care of a dying parent, but we had an enormous bedbug infestation in our home, as well as a flood that wiped out our entire downstairs. It was one of those years that brought me to my knees. My mother, being the only person who went through the experience with me, often wonders how we got through that year alive and/or sane. It was that bad.

    I saw things that truly broke my heart and diminished my spirit. I picked up my bleeding father when he fell. I witnessed his severe hallucinations. One night, he got a scary look in his eye and screamed that there were people with guns in the house that were going to kill us. I hid in my room with the door locked, afraid of him.

    My most painful memory was seeing him right before his death when he was going in between consciousness and unconsciousness. I have never seen anything like that before. The memory still haunts me.

    When he died during my freshman year of college, I thought I would be fine. I had spent a year watching him decline, so I could just move on, life as normal, right? The grief would not hit me. I had already worked through all of that. BOY, I was in for a wild ride.

    I had spent the last year going through an incredibly difficult experience and because of what I had been through, my maturity was way beyond the normal eighteen-to-twenty-year-old. I struggled to fit into a party school college environment. The things college kids cared about at this point seemed so trivial to me. I was busy thinking about the impermanence of life and funeral plans; my friends were thinking about rush week.

    I fell into the deepest depression of my life. I was in so much pain that I felt the only way out was to not be present on this earth. I would pray that when I went to sleep, whatever existed “up there” would take me and I would never wake up. Getting through the day felt like running a triathlon. The only time I felt solace was when I was asleep.

    So how did I get here? How did I go from being the most depressed I have ever experienced to sitting here at a coffee shop peacefully typing away?

    I want to share some of the most important tools that helped me through my grief journey and helped me through my depression. While they all may not work for you, I am hoping that at least one of them will help you find peace. Most importantly I want to stress, over and over again, you are not alone. There is a light to the end of the tunnel, as cliché as it sounds.

    Be gentle with yourself.

    When I was working through deep trauma and grief, I was surprised how my body reacted. I did not realize that while I was processing what had happened on a surface level, my subconscious was processing the experience as well. Due to this, I was incredibly tired and emotional all the time. I needed so much sleep and time to decompress.

    Giving my body and mind the time I needed to process what I had been through was incredibly important. Working through difficult experiences mentally and emotionally is not a sprint. It takes time. Being gentle with myself and not rushing my healing journey was very helpful in the long run.

    Find a skilled mental health professional ASAP.

    My partner recently asked me what was the best thing that has happened to me in the past ten years. I told them it was my mom getting me a skilled and powerful therapist at sixteen.

    I know there is therapy shaming that goes on in a lot of circles. I have witnessed people who are in the mental health field who refuse to get therapy. While they believe in mental health for other people, they believe they do not need anyone to help them even though they are struggling deeply.

    Speaking as someone who has spent her entire life researching mental health and intends to make it my livelihood, let me just say this once and for all: Everyone, no matter how healthy or “woke” you are, can benefit from seeing a skilled mental health professional.

    Being able to share your problems with a trusted individual, who is educated and trained to handle trauma and difficult situations, is incredibly healing. Therapists will give you techniques and tools to move through your difficult situations and will be a non-judgmental place to hold space for you when processing painful life circumstances.

    That being said, I often tell my friends that finding a therapist is like finding the perfect sweater. Not everyone is going to fit. People have different techniques, energy, and listening styles. Let yourself explore and what is best for you and do not be discouraged if it takes a few people to find a positive fit.

    Share your story.

    The power of sharing your story is profound. The opportunity to claim something that has happened to you and express it to people who will hold space for you is an incredibly healing and cathartic process. When I was able to express what I was feeling, I felt like those feelings did not have power over me anymore. I felt liberated.

    As a caveat, I learned that it was important to carefully consider whom I chose to share my story with. I chose people who I was confident had earned the right to hear my story. So if I knew that Aunt Sally was going to brush my story aside or tell me that my feelings weren’t valid, I didn’t share my story with her. She had not earned the right to be a witness my experience.

    My life journey and experiences are beautiful and valuable. It is an honor for me to share them.

    Depending on your environment and support group, you may want to get creative with who you choose. I know that not everyone has a group of supportive friends or family members. If you fall into this category, I strongly suggest you look for other avenues such as grief support groups, national helplines, group counseling, talking with a mentor, and/or reaching out to a counselor. No matter your situation, you are never alone. There are people out there trained and ready to help.

    Gratitude, gratitude, gratitude.

    When I was in my deepest pit of grief and depression, feeling gratitude seemed impossible. I truly felt there was nothing to be thankful for in my life. My friend recommended that I start writing down ten things I was grateful for everyday when she heard how much I was struggling.

    I did not write down huge things. I wrote about the little joys in life. No matter how sucky things were, there was something that made my life easier every day. Sometimes it was the fuzzy blanket that was draped over me to keep me warm. Or the trashy T.V. show I was binging that made me laugh. Or even though I declined, the invitation that my friend sent to ask if I wanted to get coffee with her.

    The other thing I started making myself to do in the morning was writing the three things I was looking forward to each day. When I was at my deepest point of depression, sometimes the things were incredibly small. However, writing down what I was looking forward to pushed me forward even when I felt overwhelmed. This may seem like a small thing; however, practicing gratitude daily is still one of my most helpful tools to stabilize my mood.

    Be open to receiving alternative forms of help.

    I have always been resistant to taking anxiety/depression medication. This was due to some uneducated biases in my past that I have worked through at this point in my life. However, processing my father’s death and the grief that followed while at college was incredibly painful. I remember being so depressed in the mornings, I would stare at my dorm room ceiling and pray that I would just die. Getting myself out of bed was even harder.

    My therapist suggested I get on depression medication, but I was resistant. Finally, one day my mother said to me, “Angela if your best friend was in this much pain and medication may help her, would you shame her into not taking it?”

    “Of course not,” I thought. “I would absolutely encourage her to take it. Who knows, maybe it could help?” Once I said those words, I knew what I had to do.

    I went to a psychiatrist and he set me with a low dosage of depression medication to make me feel comfortable. You know what? It tremendously helped. In fact, if I hadn’t taken this medication, I do not know if I would be writing this article for you today.

    I write this not to try to push anyone to take a certain kind of medication or to try certain forms of healing. However, I do encourage people to try new ways of healing from your experience. If you have gone through an extraordinary painful experience, sometimes it is going to take more intense measures to get back to a new normal.

    Find a sense of community.

    If this experience, or even 2020, has taught me anything it is that we are not meant to live these human lives alone. It is incredibly important when we are going through difficult times to surround ourselves with people and environments we can lean on and that can support us.

    For me it meant dragging myself to a grief support group every Wednesday, even though I was drowning in homework and had so many things going on in my life.

    It meant pushing myself to go out with my friends who loved me, even when I didn’t really feel like it or felt too sluggish.

    Community for me was making me go to the Unitarian Universalist Church on Sunday. Sure, I did not know anyone and I sat alone; however, I felt deep comfort in a room where people were just focused on spreading love.

    If I needed alone time, I by all means took it. However, making intentional time to spend time with people who made me feel comforted and loved was incredibly important.

    Remember that this is a season, and your pain will lessen over time.

    I remember when I was at my worst point with depression, I truly did not believe it was going to get better. I was in such a dark place that I literally could not even fathom that I would feel like myself again. People would tell me I would be happy again and I would roll my eyes. They didn’t understand how much pain I was experiencing.

    The pain was telling me there was no way I would get through this experience. I would feel this unhappy forever. I was permanently changed. I felt like I had dropped down so low into the pits of it, that there was no way out. I felt helpless, stuck, and alone.

    However, fast forward four years to now, I want to say that those people who told me it was going to get better were absolutely correct.

    Sometimes when working through deep depression or deep trauma the brain can play little mind games with you and tell you things will never get better. I promise with all I have and all I am that at some point you will see the light again. You will be so glad you stuck through the pain and appeared on the other side.

    A Note on Grieving a Toxic Person in Your Life

    Sometimes when we experience the death of a toxic or abusive person in our lives, we have mixed emotions. This is something that is not talked about, and something I really struggled with in my healing journey.

    Let me be clear, I did not want my father to die, and I did not want him to feel pain. I would never wish that on anyone. However, he did cause a tremendous amount of pain in my life, and this, in turn, has caused sometimes conflicting emotions for me when processing his death.

    Sometimes when I miss him, the memory of him slapping me across the face would pop up in my mind. Or when he would emotionally manipulate me over and over again to get what he wanted, and I would finally concede exhausted from the games. It is still hard for me to process and talk about these experiences.

    I want to stress that if you have a similar experience of someone dying who was a painful person in your life and you feel mixed emotions, you are not alone. You are not a bad person. Or evil. Or sick. You have received trauma from an abuser, and it is natural to be angry with them, whether they are dead or alive.

    The emotions and feelings you are processing are valid, and most importantly, they are okay. I am not going to sit here and pretend that I have all of this figured out. To be honest, the complex grief stuff, I am still working through. However, what I can do is hold witness to your feelings and remind you that whatever you are feeling is not strange or a reason to be ashamed.

    With closing this article, I want to express that all these suggestions above, I still implement them into my life even though I am not depressed or feel much grief anymore. The things I learned to help me through the journey of grief, trauma, and depression help me be a happier individual now.

    Maybe I had to go through that experience to learn that, or maybe I would have figured it out eventually without it. One will never know. However, I do know that I have never felt more liberated in my life, and I am truly thankful for those painful years. They led me to my beautiful life today.

  • Healing From the Painful Cycle of Loss and Abandonment

    Healing From the Painful Cycle of Loss and Abandonment

    “You have not been abandoned. You are never alone, except by your own choice.” ~Jonathan Lockwood Huie

    Loss is never an easy experience. However, it is a part of life, so we need to accept it and find ways to cope with it in order to keep moving forward.

    Whether someone dies or chooses to end a relationship, loss hurts and can leave us feeling abandoned and potentially leave deep wounds and scars.

    I recently read something that suggested abandonment is a type of trauma, and it can cause symptoms similar to PTSD when the abandonment issues from our past are triggered in the present. When those emotions are triggered, we go into fight-or-flight mode.

    I experienced a great deal of loss early in my life, and it created issues around abandonment, trust, and insecurity. Although most of the loss was through the passing of loved ones, I also experienced abandonment as a child and young adult from people close to me, who were alive and well and a significant part of my life.

    It began when I was only seven and my mom discovered she had a brain tumor. She passed away when I was ten. My dad was never honest with me about how seriously ill she was and the fact that most likely she was going to die. I was always told that mommy was going to be okay.

    Even though I know now that he was trying to protect me, it was the start of many repeating patterns in my life. Patterns of loss, abandonment, and deception.

    Was anyone ever going to be honest with me? Was anyone ever going to genuinely love me and stick around?

    I lost many other family members between the ages of ten and twenty-four, culminating with my dad. Our relationship had become strained over the years after my mom passed, mainly because his new wife, who he’d brought into our lives shortly after my mom’s death, seemed to have little compassion for a young girl who had lost her mother.

    She and her daughter became the new priorities in my dad’s life. I felt abandoned at a young age by the one man who I believed would be there for me after losing my mom.

    As I progressed into my teenage years and early twenties, I was looking for love and security anywhere I could find it. When I did find it, I tried to hold on way too tightly, so tightly that I often lost what I had.

    After my teenage years, I continued looking for love, for security, and for someone who would be open and honest with me; someone I could trust 100%. I wanted someone who would put me first. I was looking for someone who would finally prove to me that I was lovable and worth fighting and sticking around for.

    Over and over again, I looked outside of myself instead of learning how to find the love and security I so desperately wanted within myself.

    I have been in various relationships since the age of sixteen, starting with a seven-year relationship that felt like another huge loss when it ended. Not only did I lose him, but also his family, which had become a surrogate for my own. There were a few short-term relationships after that, and then I got married at twenty-seven after dating someone for two years. We separated five years ago, officially divorced three years ago, and after that I went into another relationship.

    All the loss and deception I experienced early on in life have created various fears, fears I now know I’ve created. A fear of being alone (which is why I’ve gone from relationship to relationship), a fear of not being enough, a fear that someone is going to leave me again in some way, a fear that people are not going to be honest with me.

    We all have our own experiences in life and our own stories. The important thing is what we do with them. Do we take them and learn from them, or do we take any gut-wrenching experiences we’ve been through and play the victim, wanting others to feel sorry for us?

    I will admit, I did play the victim for many years, and I wanted anyone and everyone to feel sorry for me. Many people told me that I was a strong person despite everything I had been through, but it took me many years to see that for myself. At one point when I was younger, I did see it, but then it got buried for quite a long time; however, I am now slowly finding it once again.

    I’ve been taking a deeper look at my life and the things I’ve been through, specifically when it comes to love and relationships.

    I’ve come to realize that I have attracted the same type of man many times. I believe this is based on the initial abandonment by my father, who couldn’t seem to be emotionally available for a young girl who had lost her mother and instead dove right into something new in order to not have to truly face it himself.

    When I look at some of the most serious relationships I’ve had in my life to date, I see they were all with men who were emotionally unavailable. Men who lacked empathy and compassion and who didn’t know how to be there when I was truly struggling. Much like my father.

    I realize that I’ve had this belief that if I could convince just one emotionally unavailable man to change, truly care, and be there for me—to heal the wounds of this little girl—then somehow it would make up for the hurt I experienced as a young child who felt alone and hurt and deceived for so many years.

    I thought that if I could just change one man, this would take away all the pain I had in my life for all these years. The pain that was like a knife in my heart that someone just kept twisting and turning, leaving an open wound that could never heal.

    There were times when I did things that didn’t feel right to me, just so the man I was with would love me and stay. I was not being authentic to myself, just so I wouldn’t be abandoned and alone.

    I was not learning the lessons I needed to learn, so what do you think the universe kept providing? Men who were emotionally unavailable or deceptive. Men who I could not fully trust, men who had no empathy, men who left me feeling unsafe and insecure, men who I changed who I was for.

    Finally, my eyes are starting to open. I see now that until I heal these wounds within me, on my own, I won’t find satisfaction in any relationship. I need to discover my path to healing, to being whole and complete, in order to have the relationship I truly want.

    So that is exactly what I am currently working on. Healing those childhood scars, learning to love myself, realizing that I am enough and that I deserve so much more than I’ve experienced up until now. 

    I know that I deserve honesty and respect, care and compassion, and a man who makes me a priority in his life. I just turned fifty last year, and although part of me wishes I could have figured things out a long time ago, I believe everything happens when it is meant to, and I am okay with that.

    We all learn the lessons we need to learn at different paces. It may be a long road, or it may be a short one. It may be easy, or it may be hard.

    One thing I can assure you of based on my own personal experience: the universe will continue to provide the opportunity to learn the lessons you need to learn until you finally come to that moment of clarity. A moment where it all becomes crystal clear, like a lake on a still, quiet day. A day when you have an awakening and can finally begin to move forward.

    And then, you will move on to your next lesson, because in life there will always be something to learn. If we aren’t learning, we aren’t growing.

    So, if you’ve been struggling with something that seems to be repeating itself in your life, take a look at what you’ve been through and see if you can find a cycle or a pattern there. Think back to where this pattern first began, most likely in your childhood.

    Try to step outside the emotions of your current situation and see the deeper work you need to do to truly heal so you can create change in your life. That might mean healing from early abandonment, like me, so you stop choosing people who will reject you. Or it may mean recognizing your worth as a person so you stop sabotaging yourself. Whatever your pattern, there’s one constant: you. The first step is to acknowledge that self-awareness is truly key!

    Then dig down and find your strength; it’s in there! Make a decision that you are going to learn your lessons, break that pattern, and find true happiness in your life. We all deserve that!

  • 7 Signs Your Parents’ Love Was (and Is) Conditional

    7 Signs Your Parents’ Love Was (and Is) Conditional

    “The beauty of the truth; whether it is good or bad, it is liberating.” ~Paulo Coelho

    It’s around the time of your mother or father’s birthday. You browse through the card aisles of your local store getting more and more frustrated because you cannot relate to any of the cards you read. You eventually pick out the most generic birthday card you can find and think, “Okay, I’m off the hook until the next holiday.”

    Celebrations often bring up a lot of unresolved issues in families, even in among the most well functioning ones. We are reminded that the relationships we have with loved ones are not only not the way we would like them to be, they are downright unfulfilling.

    Sure, you can accept that your relationship with your family is not what you want. In fact, that’s the healthiest way to look at it, but you still must interact with them, and that just leaves you feeling depleted.

    No one can say that they had a perfect childhood. If someone was to ask a room of people if they grew up in a dysfunctional family, I would be the first to raise my hand.

    Personalities clash from time to time; however, there’s a specific way that people feel when their parents loved them with conditions. There’s a nagging outlook that something was and is always missing, a deep emptiness.

    Unconditional love is when someone loves you without confines. They express their love to you whether you succeed or fail. They don’t hold it against you if you’re going through a tough time. Their love is constant.

    Conditional love is when someone expects perfection at all times, and if you fail, they’re extremely disappointed. They treat failure as a character flaw and have a hard time accepting mistakes. They don’t truly see you. They rarely build you up and instead tear you down.

    The emotions associated with inconsistent parental love are similar to the feelings one may experience during loss. Numbness, anger, sadness, and loneliness are common when you’re working toward acceptance, which is a vital phase of healing after an emotionally lonely childhood. In time you’ll come to the realization that you cannot change your parents and say goodbye to the relationship that will never be.

    Conditional love from a parent is one of the reasons why so many people feel that they will never be enough and have a deep longing for something more in life.

    Not sure if your parents love you conditionally? Here are some signs to look out for.

    1. You feel drained and beaten down after seeing your parent.

    No interaction is ideal from start to finish in any relationship, but if you feel consistently exhausted after seeing your parent, it’s worth looking deeper into your relationship with them. Feeling tired after each interaction with a parent is not the norm.

    2. You never felt like you were good enough as a child or even now as an adult.

    You are perfectly aware of all of your positive attributes in your personal life and career; however, you feel like you’re a failure. Nothing you do makes you feel like you’ve succeeded.

    3. Your parents rarely beamed with pride over your accomplishments.

    Your parent never really talked about you with pride, though you may have heard them boast about your brother, sister, or even acquaintances to others.

    4. They downplay your achievements.

    You accomplish a challenging personal goal. Someone asks you about it and before you can answer him or her, your parent talks over you denying or downplaying your achievement.

    5. They openly reject you in front of others.

    You show up at a family event, and even if you and your parent are seemingly on good terms, they avoid contact with you at all costs. It leaves you feeling deeply hurt and confused, wondering what you did to make them avoid you like the plague.

    6. You dread expressing yourself or talking openly with your parent.

    Your parent says something that may seem insensitive. You’re thrown off and would like to address it, but you’re afraid to express how you feel because you know it wouldn’t be worth the agony. You feel they might lash out, turn the tables on you, or deny your feelings.

    7. You feel they don’t see the adult version of you.

    No matter how much therapy you’ve been through, how many self-help books you’ve read,  how many successes you’ve achieved, or how many people you meet in your adult life that make you feel that you are loved and accepted for who you are, you still feel defensive and attacked in your parent’s presence. You logically know your positive attributes, but around your parent you feel like the child who was trapped in a dysfunctional home with little hope of escaping.

    You may be thinking that all this sounds strikingly similar to the relationship you have with your parent. If so, it’s going to be okay. You are not alone in this. Remember I raised my hand too when the topic of dysfunctional families came up earlier in the article?

    It takes self-awareness, support, self-care, and patience to heal. Just recognizing conditional love isn’t enough to ease the pain. But there is something you can do to create a little relief when you feel those familiar feelings bubbling up.

    First, take a moment to close your eyes and take some deep belly breaths, filling your stomach up with air. Feel the tension in your body. Where are you holding it most—your stomach, chest, jaw, or shoulders? Breathe and release it with each breath until your body feels completely relaxed.

    Next, picture yourself in a bright, beautiful forest or open meadow. You walk through the grass and come to an enchanted pond with a pinkish, golden light. You find a metal pitcher sitting on the edge of the pond and pick it up. You then dip the pitcher into the pond collecting the beautiful liquid.

    You hold it against your body and take another, deep belly breath. Then you hold the pitcher to your nose and smell it, and it smells like the scent that you love the most—like apples, peppermint, lavender, whatever it may be.

    Now allow your heart to slowly open up. This may take some time. Even if your heart doesn’t feel completely open, relax and pour this magnificent liquid downward into your chest area. Let it flow through your heart, your core. DEEP BREATH.

    Your chest opens even more as you sense the space you’re in. Allow yourself to focus on the presence of your surroundings. Now, just sit there for a moment. Take another deep breath and pull the presence back into your chest. Hold it in for a moment and let it flow to your feet. Hold it, then release it into the ground/Earth.

    Open your eyes once you’re ready and feel how this visualization has created space for peace, acceptance, and presence.

    You are and will be okay.

    Take comfort in the fact that, in time, with the help of solid friendships, partners, self-care habits, support groups, coaches, or therapists, you will recognize that your experience with your parents was less about you, and more about the lack of love they may have received when they were children.

    Their pain is not yours and it most definitely was and is not your fault. The best you can do is channel your experience into the changes you’re in control of. The thoughts you choose to believe, the people you select to be around, and the self-care rituals you want to have.

    Recognizing your pain is the beginning of healing. Many loving wishes.

  • When Expectations Hurt: How I’ve Forgiven My Absentee Father and Healed

    When Expectations Hurt: How I’ve Forgiven My Absentee Father and Healed

    “What will mess you up most in life is the picture in your head of how it’s supposed to be.” ~Unknown

    I may have said a few words that hurt my father’s feelings, but…

    See, here’s the backstory.

    I’m thirty-four years old, and I started having a relationship with my biological father at age twenty-one. During my childhood years I would see him every now and then even though he lived less than three miles away from my home. I don’t have any memories of being with my dad for birthdays, holidays, family vacations, or even just hanging out watching TV at home.

    When I was twenty-one my father called and said, “Hey, I’m outside your house.”

    I went outside and he said, “Your mom told me you just had another baby.”

    I said, “Yes, I did.”

    By this time I rarely had any dealings with my father, and I had some negative feelings about him because he was not in my life in the way I felt he should have been.

    A part of me was upset and confused as to why he wasn’t around during my childhood when I needed him. I wanted his guidance and protection, and I felt that he hadn’t given that to me.

    We had a conversation, and he told me that I was welcome at his home anytime and that I should come around more often. Despite how I was feeling, I decided I would give it a try because a part of me wanted to be daddy’s girl.

    So, I did just that. I called him as often as I could and would go by his house for visits. I finally got comfortable enough that felt like I was in a good place with my dad. He has a wealth of knowledge, so we began having deep conversations about different things in life, and he would give me advice on things I was going through.

    I couldn’t help sometimes but wonder, what would my life be like if he’d been there from the beginning?

    I would look at him and his wife and the children they had together—they have so much joy and so many memories with my father. Why couldn’t I get that? Was it because of my mother? Was it because of his wife? What is wrong with me that I couldn’t get the same level of love and attention?

    Recently I saw a post on Facebook by one of my siblings. It read, “I have the world’s greatest DAD!”

    But that’s not who he is to me. I have no childhood bond with him. What we have shared these past thirteen years has been more of a great friendship. He’s not the world’s greatest dad, because if he were he would have been there for me! My emotions and feeling of neglect got the best of me, and I had to disagree with this statement.

    The little girl in me was crying. Why couldn’t my father love me the way he loves his other kids? I felt unworthy. I also felt guilty, like I maybe I had done something wrong. Maybe I wasn’t perfect enough. Maybe he didn’t want me. I asked myself over and over, why couldn’t I have that love? All I wanted was his attention and acknowledgment.

    If you have gone through this experience you know as you get older that little girl or boy is still hurting for the love they didn’t get. That pain often shows up as anger and resentment toward your parent(s).

    The feelings I felt as a child followed me into my adulthood. I was insecure as a person and followed the crowd. I had a hard time trusting people to show up for me; I couldn’t get my own father to be there for me, so why would anyone else?

    Since I felt unworthy of being loved by my father, I developed low self-esteem. Like a drop in the water, this caused a ripple effect. I ended up forming relationships with men who were just like the picture of my father; they would abandon me, and once again I’d feel unworthy of love.

    In order to stop this ripple effect from controlling my life, I had to acknowledge that little girl inside me. I had to let her know that I heard her, and I felt her pain. So I started journaling about my feelings. I took that energy out of my body and left it on the paper.

    I also had to have tough conversations with my parents. This was hard because it meant everyone needed to take accountability for their part in this situation—myself included. That meant releasing the expectations I’d placed on my father, which I’d never communicated to him. I recognized that I’d wanted him to be something he wasn’t, I wanted to change him, but I realized that I can’t control or change anyone but myself. 

    This is the part where I hurt my father’s feelings.

    I needed to have this conversation with my father and get these feelings off my chest. I knew there was a possibility he wouldn’t understand, because he may have felt justified in his absence. But I also knew the pain I was feeling was not my fault.

    I called him, and I stated, “Dad, I feel like we are really good friends, but I don’t feel like you are my dad. I have no childhood memories with you, but I know I can always call you for advice now.”

    I wasn’t trying to hurt his feelings. I wanted to explain my feelings, based on my experience and my perception. I didn’t really know why he wasn’t around during my childhood; I just knew I didn’t get my dad.

    He responded with, “It sounds like your saying I’m a failure.”

    I said, “No, I’m just sharing how I feel.”

    I took a few days to think about this conversation because it was tough for the both of us. I’d cried, and I could tell he felt disappointed. I realized then that just because people have children, that doesn’t mean they are ready to be parents.

    We think two people meet, fall in love, get married, plan to have kids, and plan out their career. Sometimes it happens that way. But often they really love and care about each other, and then they get pregnant, unexpectedly. Then things go south, and co-parenting goes with it. At least this was my reality with my parents. Neither was there to raise me in the way I thought parents should.

    I have no clue what specifically they were going through at that time. But whatever it was, it required me to live with my aunt till I was in third grade.

    My Ah ha! Moment

    A mother and father give you life, but that doesn’t mean they will be the ones who raise you. I have a mother and a father, but my aunt who stepped in and took me to live with her and her three children was my mother.

    My “dad,” who was my uncle, picked me up almost every weekend and promised to protect me from all danger.

    I had another “dad,” who just happened to be my grandfather; he provided for me like a father would.

    When I eventually went to live with my mother, her boyfriend at the time treated me like his own daughter.

    I realized then I’d been wrong when I told myself I didn’t have a dad, because I clearly did.

    Plenty of people had stepped in as father figures even though they had no obligation to do so. They created those birthdays, holidays, vacations, and just hanging out at the house type memories that I was looking for from my father.

    I was blinding myself to my blessings and holding my parents to an expectation that they were never going to be able to fulfill.

    As a child I wasn’t able to look at them for who they truly are or accept them with the good and bad. As an adult, I focused so much on what I was lacking in my relationships with them that I couldn’t see what I’d had in other people all along.

    I know now that I want to lead my life with love. That means accepting people for who they are and how they are, not what I would like them to be.

    Though the pain I felt when it came to my father was not my fault, my healing was my responsibility. As an adult, I’m now capable of taking responsibly for my life decisions in a way I wasn’t as a child. I had to take my power back and stop letting my pain control me.

    I told my father, “I’m not trying to hurt you. Things just are the way they are. It’s not good or bad; this is just our experience. Having you as a friend is better than having nothing at all.”

    I now call my dad often, because I know it’s difficult to find good friends. I’m happy to say that I have found one in my father.

    I think I’d just been caught up in the personal emotions and attachments to the people who gave birth to me and expected them to be X, Y, and Z. As a result, I caused myself a lot of unnecessary pain and suffering. I had to forgive both my parents and myself for holding on to these expectations.

    If we can let go of expectations and focus on appreciating the people who are there for us we can find healing in the painful truth. I think this is a key to finding peace with things that have hurt us. We have a picture in our minds that doesn’t match up with our reality. When this happens, we may feel disappointed and close ourselves off to other perspectives.

    Like me, you may not have had the relationship you wanted with your parents, but perhaps foster parents, aunts, uncles, brothers, or friends stepped into your life and become that dad or mom when they had no obligation to do so.

    To those people in my life I say thank you. It’s hard to see, at first, just how much you’ve done. As a child our pain can blind us from the love we are given. Because of your love, people like me can stop and say, “I did have mom or dad.”

    This insight doesn’t only apply to parents. Have you ever held someone to certain expectations, just because of who they are to you? Like a husband or wife, mother or father, brother or sister, aunt or uncle, grandparents, best friend, boss, co-worker, etc.

    At times we expect people to fill certain roles just because of their label. Some expectations are reasonable and healthy, but can you perhaps release some and replace them with gratitude?

    This is in no way, excuses anyone’s behavior or the pain they may have caused you. This is a step toward acceptance. Accepting people in their truth even when we don’t agree, this is taking back our power.

    I know I can’t change who my parents are or what they’ve done, but I can always change my perspective by looking for positive aspects in each of them. I receive more from being grateful than I do with expectations.

    I’ve stopped focusing so much on them and now focus more on myself, because I’ve realized the only person I can change is myself.

    Forgive yourself for hurting yourself or others with expectations. Know that the pain you feel is real, and that you can release that pain from your life at any moment you choose. And allow yourself to be grateful for all the good in your life instead of focusing solely on what’s hurt you.

    This is how I’ve healed some deeply rooted wounds that caused a great level of pain in my life. I hope by sharing my experience I’ve helped you take a step toward your own healing and understanding.

  • Why I Forgave My Father and How It Set Me Free

    Why I Forgave My Father and How It Set Me Free

    “There is no love without forgiveness, and there is no forgiveness without love.” ~Bryant H. McGill

    The day I chose to forgive was the day I became free

    It happened on an ordinary weekday. It was just another ride on a crowded train. It’s been years since it happened, yet I can still recall the faintest details of that moment.

    There they were, sitting directly across from me. She pulled out a small mirror and began to apply her lipstick. He playfully nudged her, causing her to mess up. She got mad. He laughed. She couldn’t help but smile despite her aggravation. She said, “Daaad, don’t do that.”

    Before I knew what hit me, I felt warm streams of tears rolling down my face. I couldn’t stop them, couldn’t control them, and there was no way to hide them. It’s as if years of suppressed pain came swarming up my spine and took over all my senses.

    This was the day I realized I really missed a father figure in my life. The funny thing is, I did just fine for seventeen years of my childhood until this very moment. This moment was the straw on camel’s back to my bottled up emotions.

    A dark part of me wishes I could tell you a tragic story of how my father passed away at a young age and how I never got to know him. That didn’t happen though. And I think it’s one of the very reasons it hurts so much.

    My father was alive and well. Still is. He simply had different priorities and was not the kid loving type. You see, he was “there,” but he was never there for me.

    I got to see him on weekends from time to time, but most of our “quality time” was spent with him taking care of his personal errands and me waiting in the car.

    Many times he canceled plans at the last minute, and sometimes didn’t show up at all. On birthdays he made a quick appearance to drop off a gift and quickly took off to take care of other more important things.

    Sometimes he’d call and ask for my older sister, and they would chat for a while as I patiently waited for my turn to talk to daddy. Most times my turn didn’t come. I watched in hopeless silence as my sister said “goodbye” and hung up the phone.

    It stung a little extra the day I overheard my mother reminding him that he has another daughter and that he should ask to talk to me too. To me, he was a mystery. A tall, manly figure with gold chains and strong cologne.

    I remember looking up at him from the corner of the room, hanging on every word that came out of his mouth. I’m not sure if it was fascination or intimidation that drove this curiosity. Probably a little bit of both.

    He was the life of the party. He drove an Audi in a town where most people walked, me and my family included. I was a shy little girl who wanted nothing more than to be loved by her big and strong daddy. I didn’t understand why he didn’t seem to care.

    So there I was, a seventeen-year-old girl on a morning train trying to wipe the tears without smearing my mascara. It was too late, mascara was everywhere.  After this day, over the course of many years, I experienced a kaleidoscope of emotions. Mostly anger.

    I hated him. I blamed him for not being there for me when I needed him most. Over the next few years I acknowledged a series of behaviors that were direct outcomes of my ”daddy issues.”

    I was extremely insecure, which caused an enormous amount of jealousy that led to endless fights with my lovers. I sought out friendships with men, mostly because I needed their attention. I continuously victimized myself, and it was all his fault. I blamed that selfish, arrogant jerk who was too cool to hang with his little girl. 

    Years passed this way. I dwelled. The anger and sadness resonated inside me. Tears came to the surface at every darn daddy scene in the movies. I pretended Father’s Day didn’t exist. I felt bad for myself every chance I had. It was exhausting. I avoided his rare calls and slight attempts to “build” a relationship. “It’s too late,” I told myself.

    This went on for years. So much of my time was wasted on accusation, pain suppression, and avoidance. “This is just the way things are,” I told myself. I didn’t think there was another way.

    Some say time heals all wounds; others believe it’s up to us to heal them. In my case it was a little bit of both. On my long journey to recovery, I did a whole lot of soul searching and self-realization. I began to slowly and cautiously unravel the layers of hurt and blame.

    I consciously and diligently started working on improving my confidence, and with the help of a steady and healthy relationship with a wonderful man, I started to learn that not all men were bad. More over, I began to understand that men, just like women, can be wonderful, caring, loving, and supporting beings that make this world a beautiful place.

    As I dove deeper into studying the human psyche I learned that all of our behaviors are taught, and if there is no positive influence to teach us right from wrong, there is a big chance we can go astray from what is right. My father was no exception to this rule.  

    His father wasn’t nurturing or loving or any of the other things I wanted my father to be. He never learned those fatherly tendencies that I so desperately needed from him. While he certainly had an opportunity to change this pattern, as we all do, he didn’t, and for that I empathize with him.

    I’m sorry he didn’t get to feel the love and admiration I felt for him. I’m sorry he wasn’t there to rejoice in my accomplishments. I’m sorry he wasn’t the one to show me how amazing a father’s love can be. I’m sorry he missed out on a life long connection with a caring and loving soul he himself created. I’m sorry he missed out on so much love.

    Today, as I watch my incredible husband play with my son, my heart smiles. I cry happy tears that he will never feel the void that haunted me throughout my younger years. He won’t have to wonder why his daddy isn’t there, why he didn’t call, or when he’ll see him again.

    The presence of his parents’ love will teach him that life is full of loving and caring people who come together to grow and foster unity in the safety of their loving home. He will know love the way he’ll know his name.

    This part of my life taught me that while hardships are inevitable, the way we respond to them is up to us. For many years I chose to feel hurt instead of learning to forgive and looking for the light.

    I chose to blame instead of seeking understanding. I felt anger instead of compassion. I chose to be a victim instead of becoming the victor. I sought happiness in others, not realizing that it has always been within me; I simply didn’t know where to look.

    Today I wish my father well. I hope he lives out the rest of his days surrounded by peace, love, and kindness. The day I chose to forgive him was the day I set myself free.

  • Overcoming Family Rejection & Finding Strength in Pain

    Overcoming Family Rejection & Finding Strength in Pain

    Man Finding Strength

    “I don’t like being too looked up at or too looked down on. I prefer meeting in the middle to being worshipped or spat out.” ~Joni Mitchell

    Growing up, there were two sides of the kitchen table. On side A, there was my lieutenant colonel of the US Army, hardcore conservative, Wall Street trader of a father who used the word “faggot” while passing the salt.

    On side B, there was little ole me, who was pretty sure that I was that word my father so vehemently used.

    I thought Barbies were a fun toy (Malibu Barbie was my favorite, obviously) and at twelve years old, I got that funny feeling inside when I first laid eyes on Mark Wahlberg in his now infamous Calvin Klein ads. (Thanks for the memories, Markie Mark!)

    So there I was on side B, always feeling as if my side was less than. How many of us have been there before?

    I could never understand the larger than life, imposing, All-American man across from me, whose emotional unavailability and anger kept me at bay. But I tried, and tried, and tried.

    It was as if there was always some sort of divide between the two of us, and no matter how desperately I wanted to close the gap, I couldn’t jump it. There was no safety net in our relationship, and so as I got older, it was one of the many reasons I went down a dangerous path.

    Sure, the fear of my father that was ingrained in me was a catalyst for shame, feelings of unworthiness, and an inability to express who I was within the world.

    It was also the black hole that I learned to fill with perseverance, self-respect, and authenticity, and for that I now see its purpose with gratitude.

    When I hit rock bottom at twenty-five years old after years of drug, alcohol, and sex abuse, all roads led to the forgiveness of my father—and myself.

    I thought back to his absence in my life. All of the athletic accomplishments that he overlooked, meanwhile celebrating my older brother’s football success. All of the dating conversations we never had, and all the times he could never say “I love you.”

    I let those memories burn, and braced myself as the ashes dissipated in the air of my past. Though the immense pain, I cried as I waved goodbye.

    I waved goodbye to the day when I came out of the closet at nineteen years old, and my dad replied that it was “his fault” since he has a gay cousin. I waved goodbye to his belief that there was something wrong with him for “passing along the gay gene.”

    I parted with the memory that every time I brought good news, he could never celebrate it with me, as if it wasn’t good enough. I let go of the belief that I was never good enough.

    With everything I waved arrivederci to, I waved hello and embraced all that I had become and am.

    I welcomed the realization that it doesn’t matter if anyone else deems us worthy, so long as we accept ourselves.

    I hallelujahed the knowledge that I was my father’s son, and his gift for his own self-growth; and if he simply was not willing to receive that gift at the time, this was not my fault.

    It was not his fault either, as every person is doing the best they can at their own personal level of awareness. I could let go of all blame.

    I could just be me, and let him be him, and live with the hope that one day, he and I could become an “Us.”

    Within the larger story of Us, I see that our diversity is to be celebrated, and is the one thing that we all are able to appreciate in this often chaotic and messy world.

    Our uniqueness is unique to us, and is a gift. I learned to be grateful for that. The great thing about gratitude is that it is a predecessor for forgiveness.

    Once I was able to forgive my dad, I was able to see him differently. As I healed myself, my comfort around him healed us.

    When I was freshly twenty-eight years old, I was going through a crippling yet transformative break-up, and on Father’s Day, I needed him.

    I never spoke about men to my father, but I knew this was the moment. I packed my bags and blurry eyes in NYC and drove west to my parents’, where my dad was waiting for me.

    There, in the den with the TV off, through the tension, I cried, opening up about how much I loved this particular man and how much I was hurting.

    I admitted that I had started drinking again; that I felt deeply lost, that I needed help. That I needed my dad.

    “You’re too nice of a person to let people do that to you” was his simple console. In its simplicity, it was enough. I was enough, and so was he.

    The chasm got smaller; the separation united. I had jumped the gap and made it safely to the other side.

    Nowadays, there’s a flow where the river was once damned. We talk more than ever; about how smart Peter Thiel is, or how the stock market is doing, and I also share personal stories with him. I share my authentic self.

    Sometimes he just sits there and nods, and in his big blue eyes, I am given a world of quiet contentment. I no longer am looking to be anywhere but there when I am with him.

    Our relationship makes me realize that if we could all have open and honest conversations with one another, we would be able to realize that we are all similar underneath our differences; that there is never a reason to create a divide between.

    Of course, it takes two, and if the other person won’t meet us halfway, we can end up feeling divided in ourselves. If that happens, remember that you are wonderfully you for a higher reason.

    You are uniquely you and meant to find those whom support you for all that you are. As you are, exactly who you are, there are others who were put here to simply support that person.

    As an individual footprint in the paved path of the Universe, your mission is to be unapologetically who you are made to be. No one can step in your way if you are living a life of pure authenticity and self-respect, not even an unaccepting family member.

    Remember that others’ negativity is a projection of their own pain—and have compassion for them.

    How we feel about others is a direct mirror for how we feel about ourselves, and as someone who has experienced a lot of self-shame, I have seen the danger of taking my frustrations out on others and making it their fault.

    Any sort of judgment stems from self-judgment, so the more another person irks us, the more we need to question what irks us about ourselves.

    It’s important for us to remember that compassion can melt every boundary of anger and hurt.

    Family contention can often be an opportunity to let go of self-blame and find forgiveness in spots that were once hidden to us, if we allow it to be.

    It is often the stepping stone to massive healing if we are brave enough to take the jump. There is a reason why we go through everything.

    Lastly, remember that you are allowed to hurt.

    Some days, it’s important to let your heart bleed. Pain often connects us to our strength, so let it burn with faith that things are only getting better from here.

    They really are.

    The greatest part of my story is that when my father and I are at the dinner table now, there are no sides any longer; there is just one beautifully imperfect, real human relationship.

    There is acceptance, and there is love. I know this not only because he is able to tell me so these days, but because I feel it within myself.

    My relationship with my father gives me hope. It gives me strength. It gives me the belief that one day, between Side A and Side B, we’ll all be able to meet somewhere in the middle.

    Man finding strength image via Shutterstock