I didn’t inherit safety-so I became it.
I grew up knowing what instability felt like—not just as a concept, but as a constant, gnawing presence. I knew the sound of hurried packing. I knew the sting of slammed doors. I knew how it felt to fall asleep in a house that didn’t feel safe. My childhood wasn’t rooted in warmth or security—it was built on survival.
My parents’ marriage fell apart, and the divorce was only the beginning. What followed wasn’t rebuilding—it was chaos. My mom fought her own battles and often sought comfort in all the wrong places, dragging me into worlds no child should ever see. My dad, on the other hand, didn’t disappear completely—but sometimes I wished he had, because he chose to show up fully… just not for me. Somehow, his love had conditions I never seemed to meet.
And then there was the constant commentary about my body. Not from strangers—but from the people who were supposed to protect me. I wasn’t just teased—I was humiliated. The words stuck deeper than they knew, carving out wounds that would take years to even acknowledge.
As a child, I wasn’t nurtured. I was tolerated. I wasn’t seen. I was criticized. My life wasn’t built around joy—it was built around tiptoeing through emotional landmines.
I carried all of that with me into adulthood like a weight chained to my ankles. No matter how much I tried to outrun it, it followed. Until one day—it didn’t. Because one day, I became a mother.
And suddenly, everything shifted.
I looked into the eyes of my daughters, and for the first time in my life, I saw pure, unquestioned love staring back at me. Love that didn’t ask me to shrink. Love that didn’t expect me to perform. Love that didn’t demand perfection—it just existed.
And right then and there, I made a vow:
My daughters will never have to recover from their childhood.
That doesn’t mean I’m a perfect mom. Far from it. There are days when I’m exhausted beyond words, when the past tries to creep back in, when doubt whispers that I’m not doing enough. But even on those days—I love them intentionally. I choose softness when I was shown hardness. I give patience when I was met with criticism. I offer safety when all I knew was instability.
In the home that once felt like a battlefield, I’ve built a sanctuary. In the heart that once believed it was unworthy, I’ve planted gentleness. Where I was once made to feel like a burden, I remind my girls daily that they are a blessing.
Breaking generational cycles isn’t loud or glamorous. It’s quiet. It’s slow. It’s deliberate.
It’s in every deep breath before reacting.
It’s in every apology we were never given, but choose to offer anyway.
It’s in every “I love you” that we say just because—no reason needed.
To the mom who is healing while raising little humans—I see you. I know how heavy it is to hold both your past and your future in the same hands. But hear me when I say this:
You are not failing. You are changing history.
The real victory isn’t pretending the pain never happened.
It’s loving our children so fiercely that they never have to question their worth the way we did.
The cycle ends with us.
And oh… what a beautiful ending it will be