Just A Mom Trying

All year long, I unconsciously bury certain feelings away. They definitely didn’t get folded neatly and tucked in; nope, they got shoved and squashed into a little wooden box. In my head, that box is wrapped in chains and barbed wire with a little old lock, and it’s just floating alone in a black space. I hate that box, but at the same time, it has a strange, protective beauty to it. That feeling stays with me all the time, but sometimes, a specific memory, one I didn’t even know I had, will slip out and smack me in the face in a disrespectful manner.

I can’t let myself release everything at once. Doing that would probably send me back into someone I am not anymore, a broken girl trying to squeeze herself together so she doesn’t fall apart. I am a strong woman now, and I am not ready for that myself. Being strong was never a choice; weakness wasn’t allowed in the world I grew up in, and now I use that strength to protect the peace I’ve earned. Plus, we don’t have enough time or chocolate for that mess today.

Today, I’m going to share just a little of those feelings and memories. I hope that writing this helps me heal just a little bit, and perhaps if anyone else out there relates, I hope it helps them feel less alone in their own complicated journey. I look at my children now, and the first thing I notice is the quiet. It’s a quiet that I had to actively build, a deliberate absence of the emotional noise that used to be the soundtrack of my entire life. My memory isn’t of tinsel or cookies; it’s of the tension that filled the air.

I remember the physical fighting between family members, a terrifying eruption of violence that broke the peace. The stress hung over the house like everyone holding a live grenade. It felt like we were in a circle staring at each other with a hold on the pin, eyeing each other to see who was going to pull first. You hoped like hell your grenade was bigger and you could move out of the way fast enough, but knowing damn well you couldn’t, and not giving a damn about the pain you were giving back to the one who pulled first. When you dove for cover, you threw your arms out trying to grab the others, like you all just jumped from a plane and you were the only one with a chute, and you couldn’t let them hit the ground.
The environment felt constantly unstable. The overwhelming memory is the feeling of being the youngest in the house and a little girl who couldn’t do anything. Instead, I suffered in silent anguish and inward crushing. That is why I fight so hard to make the atmosphere here feel light, safe, and secure.

But it wasn’t all darkness. I do remember a few Christmases where my mom was able to put together a pretty tree. Those moments were beautiful, and they offered a brief, true feeling of anticipation. I also remember her taking pride in the stockings. She always made sure to include an orange and an apple with other things, and at the time I didn’t fully appreciate it, but now every time I think of a stocking, I think of apples and oranges. I remember the excitement of seeing the Angel Tree gifts, the kindness of strangers providing moments of hope. One year, they even brought a laundry hamper with household items and things for Christmas dinner. The gifts were specific, but the real gift was the anticipation. I replay all of these memories as clear as watching a movie on the TV.

Later, in my teenage years, I saw the emotional impact on myself and my siblings: the anger we had stored inside and the rage that was chomping to destroy, get revenge, and be paid extra. I still hurt for my brother, who was just a young boy himself. I still feel his pain and grief. As a mom now myself, I see how my mother was hurting then.

That helplessness is exactly why I am such a protective person now. I tend to carry anyone’s and everyone’s pain. I truly feel for people that are hurting, and if I could take all of their pain away and carry it myself, I would. That instinct is as natural as breathing and as fiercely ready to be unleashed as the fiercest thing ever existing.

That feeling of helplessness, being the little girl who could do nothing, is the fierce energy that powers my life today. Our home is loud, lively, and yes, often full of happy chaos. But every single day, I fight to ensure this environment is secure and consistent. The children’s basic needs being met is never questioned and is always a given. That foundational security is the opposite of my childhood.

The real battle happens inside: I work to break the cycles and contain my anger, especially when I am overstimulated. I know I am not perfect, but daily I reflect and acknowledge my shortcomings. Maybe that’s a way of holding myself hostage, but I want to be accountable for my actions and the childhood I am giving them. I want the cycle broken with me.

I don’t want them left picking through pieces or having to start from scratch in their own adulthood. I want their adulthood to be worrying about making their lives and chasing their dreams, and not about recovering from childhood. I want to break the bad cycle, clean the mess, and help them start fresh with guidance. I did not get to save myself then, but I get to save my children’s peace now. Every laugh, every messy moment, is a direct, deliberate action against that past. I am the boundary. I am the safe harbor. I am the one who stops the cycle.

As the strong woman I am today, I look back on that time and I have processed it. The adult me has forgiven and moved on. I do not harbor or find a trace of those feelings now. But true healing isn’t linear, and the little girl inside holds a different truth. I think she vowed never to forgive. When I watch my children laugh and feel safe now, the adult me celebrates the peace I created, but the girl inside silently grieves the childhood she deserved and wonders why forgiveness is so easy for the grown-up version of her. Sometimes, two things can be true at the same time. I know a lot of people carry the mentality that “everyone has trauma, just move on.” I sometimes feel that pressure, that arrow hitting me when I talk about my past. Let me be clear: I do not dwell on the past. I have moved on, and I have created a wonderful life. I am not envious of my children’s happiness; I am immensely proud of it.

Yes, everyone has a past and scars, and many carry trauma. It is okay to acknowledge these things, because we cannot fix and do better if we don’t reflect. We are not keeping our eyes glued to the rearview mirror, but sometimes we do have to check what is around us before merging over. That is how we grow and evolve into the beautiful people we were always meant to be.

What cycles are you struggling to break from? Share your story in the comments below, and let’s find that support together.