It’s a question that has lived quietly in my chest for years. Sometimes loud. Sometimes just a whisper. How could you? How could the person who was supposed to protect me be the one I needed protection from? How could love and pain come from the same place, the same hands, the same voice? As a child, I didn’t have the language for it. I just knew something felt wrong. I learned to shrink. To stay quiet. To read moods like survival depended on it—because it did. And still, I loved you. That’s the part people don’t always understand. Children don’t stop loving their parents when they’re hurt. They just start blaming themselves. I told myself stories to make it make sense: Maybe I’m too sensitive. Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe if I try harder, I’ll finally be enough. But the truth I’ve had to face as an adult is this: I was always enough. What happened wasn’t because I was unlovable. It wasn’t because I failed as a child. It was because you couldn’t show up in the ways I needed. And that realization is both freeing… and heartbreaking. Because it means I have to grieve something that never really existed— the parent I deserved but didn’t have. I’ve spent a long time asking why . Trying to understand how a parent could act in ways that leave such deep marks. Was it your own pain? Your own unhealed wounds? The things no one ever taught you? Maybe. But understanding the reasons doesn’t erase the impact. It doesn’t undo the fear. The confusion. The years spent trying to feel worthy of love that should have been given freely. And so now, my question has changed. It’s no longer just “How could you?” It’s “What do I need to heal?” Because I can’t rewrite the past. But I can choose what I carry forward. I can choose to unlearn the belief that love must hurt. I can choose to speak to myself with kindness instead of criticism. I can choose to create the safety I never had. And maybe the hardest choice of all. I can choose to set boundaries, even with you. Not out of hate. But out of love for myself. I may never fully understand how a parent could treat a child the way you did. But I am learning something just as important: It wasn’t my fault. And it’s my responsibility now to heal.

There’s a quiet myth many of us grow up believing: that love means access. Unlimited, unquestioned, unconditional access. Especially when it comes to family. For a long time, I believed that if I loved you, I had to tolerate everything. The hurt. The dismissal. The patterns that never changed. I told myself that loyalty meant staying close, no matter the cost to myself. But healing has a way of rewriting those beliefs. I’ve learned something that once felt impossible to hold at the same time: I can love you and still choose distance. I can care about you and still say “no more.” Setting boundaries isn’t an act of cruelty—it’s an act of self-respect. For me, boundaries didn’t come easily. They came after exhaustion. After repeating the same conversations that led nowhere. After realizing that love should not require me to abandon myself. There is grief in this kind of growth. Because sometimes the people we need boundaries with are the same people we once needed safety from. And a part of us still hopes they’ll become who we needed them to be. But boundaries are not punishments. They are protection. They say: I will not allow harm to continue. I will not shrink to keep the peace. I will not trade my well-being for connection. And here’s the hardest truth I’ve had to accept: Love does not always mean closeness. Sometimes love looks like distance. Sometimes it looks like silence. Sometimes it looks like walking away and not coming back. And still there is love. I don’t hate you. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to heal me. If you’ve ever felt guilty for creating space, you’re not alone. We’re taught that choosing ourselves is selfish. But it’s not selfish to stop bleeding just because someone else refuses to stop holding the knife. You are allowed to protect your peace. You are allowed to change the rules. You are allowed to walk away. And you are allowed to do all of that while still holding love in your heart. Because real love, healthy love, includes you too.

• Note: Trigger warning: This post discusses childhood trauma, suicide attempts and sexual abuse. Please read with care. Breaking the Silence: From Survival Mode to Healing ​ I lived on survival mode for so long that I forgot there was any other way to exist. For years, I was labeled the “bad child.” I was angry, lost, and hurting so deeply that at sixteen, I simply didn't want to live in the hell I was going through anymore. I wanted to end it all, I tired! Thankfully, I made it through that dark period of my life! ( I, Thank God everyday I am still here and for the life I have made! I wish I could tell my 16 year old self, that everything will get better and you will build a family and build a life that is full of love and happiness! ) But now the truth is finally coming to light: I wasn't a bad child. I was an unprotected one. ​I needed love, support, and direction. Instead, I spent my childhood screaming in a pain that no one seemed to hear or care about. ​The Mirror of Motherhood ​ For decades, I subconsciously blocked out the trauma. I lived with a "trauma bond"—often called Stockholm Syndrome—where I felt a deep sense of loyalty and even idolization toward the person who was damaging me. My grandfather, I didn't want to believe the truth. ​But as I had a daughter of my own, the walls began to crumble. Seeing her grow up is like seeing a reflection of my younger self. As she reached the ages I was when the abuse occurred, the fears of history repeating itself ignited something in me. The flashbacks came in floods, and I realized I could no longer stay silent. I am facing this head-on because my daughter and all my kids deserves a mother who is whole, and I deserve a life that isn't dictated by my past.I lived in survival mode for so long that I forgot there was any other way to exist. It’s only now, looking at my kids now, that the walls I built have started to crumble. Seeing their innocence brought back the memories I subconsciously blocked out: the years of abuse starting at age three, and the 'trauma bond' that forced me to idolize the very person who was hurting me. I am finally processing the decades of silence. ​Understanding the Weight We Carry ​ If you are reading this and you feel "mad" at the world, or if your family doesn't understand why you are pulling away, please know that your feelings are valid. Healing often looks like anger to those who were used to your silence. ​Typical responses to the trauma I endured include: • ​Feeling like you are losing control of your life or mind. • ​Re-experiencing the past through intrusive flashbacks. • ​A negative self-image or feeling "dirty" inside. • ​Disruptions in your closest relationships. ​These are not signs that you are "bad" or "broken." They are normal responses to an abnormal amount of pain. ​ Choosing to Heal ​ I am writing this to reclaim my narrative. I am no longer the "bad child"—I am a survivor, a mother, and a cycle-breaker. This journey is incredibly hard, but it is exactly what I need. I am stepping out of survival mode so that my daughter and all my kids never has to enter it. ​ If you or someone you know has been affected by sexual abuse, please know that you do not have to carry it alone. Help is available, and your voice matters. ​National Sexual Assault Hotline Available 24 hours | Call: 1-800-656-4673 Website: https://rainn.org/ ​If You Are Struggling Today ​If you are feeling overwhelmed, hopeless, or like the weight of the past is too much to carry, please reach out. You don’t have to do this alone. • ​988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988 (Available 24/7 in English and Spanish) • ​Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741

Growing up, I was called things no child should ever hear. Names that made me feel small. Names that made me question my worth. Names that stuck to me long after the moment passed. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what it was doing to me. I just knew it hurt. I knew it made me feel like I had to prove myself, fix myself, shrink myself into someone more acceptable—someone who wouldn’t be criticized, yelled at, or torn down. That kind of environment doesn’t just stay in your childhood. It follows you. It becomes your inner voice. Even now, as an adult, those words still echo in my mind. In moments where I should feel confident, I second-guess myself. In moments where I should feel loved, I question if I deserve it. It’s like no matter how much I grow, there’s still a part of me that hears those same voices telling me I’m not enough. And the hardest part? I’m a mother now. I’m in a relationship. And I see how those wounds show up in both. As a mother, I’m constantly afraid of becoming what I grew up with. I overthink everything I say. I worry about how my tone sounds, how my words land, how my child feels after every interaction. I want to be soft, safe, and loving—but sometimes I catch flashes of the way I was spoken to, and it scares me. I never want my child to feel the way I did. But healing isn’t instant. It’s a process. And sometimes that process is messy. As a girlfriend, it shows up differently. I struggle with communication. I shut down when I feel overwhelmed. I get defensive, or I go quiet, not because I don’t care—but because somewhere deep down, I learned that words can hurt. That opening up can lead to being torn apart. So I protect myself, even when I don’t need to. Even when I’m with someone who loves me. That’s the part that hurts the most—knowing I’m not in that environment anymore, but still reacting like I am. Still carrying it. Still fighting it. There’s a certain kind of damage that comes from being mentally and emotionally torn down as a child. It doesn’t leave bruises you can see, but it changes how you see yourself. It shapes how you love, how you trust, how you exist in the world. But here’s what I’m learning: Just because those words were spoken to me doesn’t mean they’re true. Just because I was treated that way doesn’t mean I deserved it. And just because it shaped me doesn’t mean it gets to define me forever. I’m trying—every day—to break that cycle. To speak more gently, especially to my child. To communicate more openly, especially in my relationship. To unlearn the voice in my head that was never mine to begin with. It’s not easy. Some days I still hear those names louder than anything else. But I refuse to pass that pain on. I refuse to become what hurt me. I may have been raised in an environment that broke me down… But I’m choosing, every day, to build something different.

I didn’t become this way for no reason. Growing up, home didn’t always feel safe. The people who were supposed to protect me—my mom and my stepfather—were also the ones who taught me how to stay on edge. I learned early how to read moods, how to stay quiet, how to avoid saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I learned that peace could disappear in a second. So I adapted. I became hyper-aware of everything. Every tone shift, every look, every small change in energy. I learned how to shrink myself to avoid conflict. How to hold things in. How to survive in a place where I didn’t always feel secure. And when you group like that, it doesn’t just go away; it follows you. Now, even when I’m in situations where I’m safe… my body doesn’t believe it. My mind doesn’t believe it. I still feel like I have to protect myself. I still overthink everything. I still struggle to speak up because there’s this voice in the back of my head telling me it’s safer to stay quiet. That’s why I shut down sometimes. That’s why I pull away.That’s why I struggle to communicate, even when I want to. It’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I learned that caring too openly could hurt me. And the hardest part is realizing that those survival habits—the ones that got me through my childhood—are now hurting the people I love. Especially in my relationship. Because I want to be open. I want to feel close. I want to communicate without fear. But sometimes it feels like I’m fighting against years of conditioning that taught me to do the exact opposite. I hate that about myself sometimes. But I’m starting to understand it, too. I’m not broken. I’m a product of what I had to live through. And if I learned all of this, then maybe I can unlearn it too. Maybe I can learn that not every raised voice means danger. That not every disagreement means everything is falling apart. That I don’t have to shut down to be safe anymore. I’m still in that process. Still trying. Still unlearning. But I want to be better—not just for the people I love, but for myself. Because I don’t want to just survive anymore. I want to feel safe. I want to feel at peace. I want to actually live.

Healing from childhood trauma doesn’t start with having all the answers—it begins with a quiet, often uncomfortable awareness that something inside you deserves attention. For many of us, childhood wasn’t as safe or nurturing as it should have been. Maybe it was chaos, neglect, emotional wounds, or things you still struggle to put into words. And for a long time, you learned how to survive it. You adapted. You coped. You kept going. But survival isn’t the same as healing. Healing begins the moment you allow yourself to acknowledge: what happened to me mattered . Not in a dramatic or self-blaming way, but in an honest, compassionate one. You’re not “too sensitive.” You’re not “making it up.” Your experiences shaped you—and recognizing that is not weakness, it’s courage. One of the hardest parts of this journey is understanding that the patterns you carry today—whether it’s anxiety, people-pleasing, emotional numbness, or difficulty trusting others—were once protection. They helped you get through moments when you didn’t have better options. But what once protected you may now be holding you back. Healing is about gently learning new ways to feel safe again. That might look like: Sitting with emotions instead of avoiding them Learning to set boundaries without guilt Rewriting the harsh inner voice into something kinder Allowing yourself to rest without earning it And most importantly, healing is not linear. Some days you’ll feel strong and clear. Other days, old feelings will resurface out of nowhere. That doesn’t mean you’re failing—it means you’re processing. You don’t have to rush this. This first step is simply about awareness and self-compassion. You’re beginning to turn toward yourself instead of away. And that, in itself, is powerful. In future posts, we’ll explore practical tools, deeper insights, and ways to rebuild a sense of safety and self-worth. But for now, just know this: You are allowed to heal. You are allowed to take your time. And you are not alone in this journey.

Looking back, I wish I could hold the little girl that suffered soo much pain. When I was younger, the trauma I went through, I always questioned why me? Why do they hate me? What did I do soo wrong to deserve all the pain they caused me? Why would you abuse your daughter(s) and call her names? Make her feel less than she deserved? I saw no end... So many nights of crying myself to sleep. My sister and I talking at night and her telling me it will be ok sissy or me telling her the same. We shared a room for as long as I can remember. We would stay up even after we were told to go to sleep, whispering into the night. Our stepdad or mom hearing us, would yell to go to sleep. But it was the only time we had too feel the innocence we once held. Our dad, he left when I was 3, my sister was 18months old and our baby brother was just a newborn. We didn't see him again until I was about 5 and my sister was around 3. By then our mother remarried. Honestly she remarried about 6 months after our dad moved away. So we grew up with our mom and step father. He was an alcoholic. Some memories around that time are fuzzy. But the older I got, certain memories stand out more and more. There was always fighting going on. The yelling, that sometimes still rings in the memories. Especially, when I hear yelling today. The physical abuse, that I tend too block away but there's times when it comes flooding back. The triggers, they can happen anytime, it could be the littlest thing. The smell of eggs, which is weird right? There's definitely a story behind that. I hate eggs and ALWAYS HAVE. But in our house, you ate what was cooked. They knew I didn't like eggs, so I wouldn't eat them. But I was made too, like physically made too. First they would be my meal, every meal. The same eggs they made that morning. Then when I still refused ( I am pretty stubborn.. That's totally the Aries in me) He would make me eat them. Like who does that? I couldn't imagine physical making my kids eat something ever. Well he did. Our mom, she let him. It was always my fault, I should of ate them. She was supposed to be my protector, my safe haven. But I learned early on in life, she was not. She was always on his side. They would fight sometimes, like she was standing up for her kids. But he always played the victim and she fell for it every time. Sadly, she still does. I found comfort going to school and seeing my friends. I loved going to my best friends house every chance I got. I felt accepted there, way more than I did in my own home. The love and warmth that you just felt being around them. We shared soo many laughs and soo many memories. I went camping with them and shopping. I even went to church with them. I always questioned why couldn't my home feel this kind of love and warmth? Why couldn't we be this happy? Why is there always fighting? Why does everyone always have to be soo angry? The yelling, the living on the edge, the fear of "doing something wrong" and facing the consequences, I knew that lay ahead. No one seemed to really care, at least that's how I felt. When your that young going through the abuse, you feel like its your fault. You feel like you did something wrong and you pissed him off again. You feel like you no matter what you do, its never enough. Then you start fighting back. You feel like you have to protect yourself because no one steps up to protect you. To be that young and to feel those feelings, the feelings of being unloved, anger and .(Just a few of what I felt) It makes it hard to leave those feelings behind as you grow up. I strive to be the best mom I can so my kids know I love them and I will always protect them no matter what, because that is my job as a mother. Here's the start of my story, with so much left unsaid. But there's time and I will continue to tell it piece by piece. So for now this lady is going to be with my family, and be grateful every moment! With light and love always, Kimmi Hope