How I Got Here: A Look Inside My Healing Childhood Trauma Journey

Some mornings hold more healing than words ever could.

I honestly have no idea where to start at this point — but what I do know is that I’ve finally reached the point where I have no fucks left to give (unless it’s about my kids, my dog, my partner, or someone I actually love… I’m not that mean. Or am I?).

My life got so overwhelmingly stressful — for reasons totally out of my control — and in the end, it showed me exactly who my real support system is.

When people talk about family, you just assume they always want what’s best for you. Because that’s what families are supposed to do… right?

Yeah — I was wrong. And I’m realizing now just how many people out there are walking around with fucked up family dynamics, pretending everything’s fine.

That’s what we’re taught, isn’t it? Feel something uncomfortable? Sweep it under the rug. Move on. Don’t talk about it.

But guess what? You can’t outrun that shit forever. Now, 20+ years down the road — raising kids of my own, even through broken family dynamics — I’m finally seeing it all clearly.

The cycles. The silence. The shame.

And I’m done with it.

I’m here because I have to be the one who breaks this. I know I’m not the only one trying to heal from childhood trauma while raising kids who don’t end up broken the way I did.

If that’s you too — you’re in the right place.

I can’t sit here and write that my childhood was all bad.

Let’s be real — there’s always someone out there who had it worse. I remind myself of that all the time, especially when I’m spiraling or throwing a fucking pity party in my own head.

But why do I feel shame about struggling at all? Why do I feel guilty for feeling sad, overwhelmed, or angry about what I went through?

Probably because my childhood taught me how to survive, not how to feel safe.

And now that I’m a mom… that realization breaks my fucking heart.

All I want for my children is to feel safe and loved. (And to grow up into decent fucking people — because let’s be honest, the world could really use more of those.)

But then I ask myself: Why couldn’t my parents want the same for me?

My dad? He would’ve traded me for a 12-pack of whatever beer he was drinking if he had the choice.

He came in and out of my life whenever it was convenient for him. Showed up just long enough to leave a mark and then disappeared again — like a ghost with beer breath.

And now, as an adult and a mother, I can finally see it clearly: His bullshit isn’t excusable anymore.

My daddy issues? Yeah, they’ve landed me in therapy more times than I can count. Hell, they’re a huge reason why my life turned out the way it did.

And my mom? She pushed and pushed me to go back into therapy recently — at 31 years old.

But here’s the twist: It backfired.

A few weeks into therapy, I realized just how emotionally unavailable she’s always been. I had no choice but to go no contact.

I’m the angry, pissed-off, “miserable” daughter — and honestly? I’ve learned to love and accept that.

Because if being miserable means no longer swallowing my pain to keep everyone else comfortable? Then yeah — I’ll take it. (And don’t worry — the full tea on that situation deserves a post of its own. We’ll get there.)

There’s so much more to this story — years I spent pretending I was okay, trying to parent myself and others all at once, and what it really looked like to start over.

But for now, I’m just proud I started writing again.

If any of this hit home for you — you’re not the only one. I see you. I’m with you.

In the next part of this series, I’ll share what it was like becoming a mom before I’d even finished growing up myself — and how that changed everything.