Tag: life

Healing Misunderstandings: A Mother’s Perspective

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Recently, I listened to my daughter’s podcast and heard her describe me as an “emotionally unattached parent.”

Those words landed like a punch to the gut.

Not because I think I was a perfect mother—no such thing exists—but because everything in my heart, my memories, and my lived reality says I was the exact opposite.

The Mother I Know I Was

I was the mom who showed up.

I was at the doctor’s appointments, dentist visits, sports practices, games, school events, and plays. I read bedtime stories, tucked her in, and whispered “you are so loved” more times than I can count. I called her my sunshine because she truly lit up every room she walked into, and my world revolved around making sure she knew that. I was essentially a single parent.

While her father focused on his career and traveled most of the time, I gave up mine to fill in the gaps to be two parents in one—emotional anchor, cheerleader, driver, tutor, advocate, and safe place. I was juggling not just her needs, but also her brother’s challenges and the weight of an abusive marriage I stayed in far too long because I believed keeping the family “together” was what the kids needed.

Was I tired? Absolutely. Overwhelmed? Often. But emotionally detached? No. If anything, I was hyper attached—tuned in, over-functioning, and constantly trying to fill in all the gaps.

When Love Starts Looking Like Limits

My daughter also shared how she “lost herself” because we moved a lot. I don’t dismiss that experience. Moving is hard on kids and teenagers. They leave friends, routines, and familiarity behind. Their grief is real.

At the same time, I remember those moves differently. I remember doing everything I could to make each new place feel like home. I remember the opportunities—great schools, new cultures, safe neighborhoods, travel experiences that many kids never get. I remember saying yes to activities and sports and adventures because I wanted her world to feel big, not small.

And then came the teenage years.

Like many teens, she went down a darker path—partying, drugs, and men who did not deserve her. That was when my role as “fun, cozy mom” had to shift. Love had to become boundaries. Curfews. Rules. Consequences. Hard conversations. Tears on both sides.

From the outside—or years later on a podcast—those years might look like “emotional disconnection.” From my side, it was the hardest, most courageous kind of love: stepping in, saying no, and refusing to watch my child self-destruct without intervening. I was doing my job – and well!

I was not abandoning her. I was fighting for her.

The Narcissist in the Middle

There’s another piece to this story that matters: I wasn’t co-parenting with a healthy partner. I was co-parenting with a man who has spent years rewriting reality, painting himself as the victim, and casting me as the “crazy, unstable, bad mom.” We were never on the same page; co-parenting.

During and after the divorce, he weaponized the kids’ love and loyalty. He has told them his version of events again and again—the one where I’m the problem, I’m the drama, I’m the unstable one. He knew my greatest fear has always been losing my relationship with my children, and openly threatened to ruin that bond.

That is the hallmark of narcissistic abuse: not just hurting you directly, but slowly eroding how others see you, especially your own children. Little digs. Half-truths. Stories told just skewed enough that you look like the villain.

And the painful part is this: I can see ways it’s working.

When my daughter sits behind a microphone and tells the world I was emotionally unattached, a part of me hears his voice coming out of her mouth. The same labels. The same distortions. The same rewriting of history where he’s the hero, and I’m the failure.

I don’t blame her for all of that. She was raised in the same fog I lived in for years. When you grow up around a narcissist, their story feels like the truth. Questioning it can feel like betrayal. It’s easier to side with the parent who seems powerful, successful, and certain than the one who’s been struggling, emotional, or broken open.

But just because a story is told with confidence doesn’t make it true.

Two Stories, One Past

What hurts the most isn’t just the label—it’s hearing our shared history told like a one-dimensional story where I’m the villain or the ghost.

She speaks publicly about the instability, the moves, the divorce, and my supposed absence… while leaving out the part where I was representing myself in court to save money because her father burned most of it on legal fees. She leaves out the part where I stayed longer than I should have in a toxic marriage to keep some form of stability. She leaves out the nights I couldn’t sleep because I was worried about how to afford their activities, school, and life while my own needs went on the back burner.

I don’t say this to shame her. She is allowed to tell her story. She is allowed to have her feelings, her lens, her pain.

But I am allowed to have mine, too.

God knows my heart. He saw the nights I lay awake, wondering if I was enough. He saw the times I almost broke, but got back up for my kids. He saw the ways I kept showing up, even when I was broke and broken. He also saw the manipulation, the gaslighting, and the quiet campaign to turn my own children against me.

Grace, Boundaries, and the 3 Choices

My daughter likes to talk about the “3 C’s” and the power of choice. In my own words, I see it like this:

  1. Complain – Stay stuck in the pain and replay the same grievances.
  2. Compare/Condemn – Focus on what others didn’t do perfectly and stay in blame.
  3. Celebrate – Acknowledge the good, the gifts, the ways love did show up—even in imperfect circumstances.

She has chosen, at least for now, to tell the story through complaint and condemnation. I wish she could also see the other side: that she never went without, that she had opportunities many children only dream about, that she had a mother who loved her fiercely and would have taken a bullet for her—who almost did for her, in some ways.

I’ve extended grace to her more times than I can count. There were times her actions hurt me deeply. Times she didn’t show up for me when I desperately needed her. Times I felt abandoned, judged, or dismissed. I could have gone public with those stories. I could have dragged her name through the mud, too.

I chose not to.

That, to me, is what grace and forgiveness look like: seeing someone’s flaws, recognizing your pain, and still choosing not to humiliate them.

The Boundary I Have to Hold

Hearing myself spoken about so harshly and inaccurately on a public platform—and knowing there is a narcissistic narrative behind it—has forced me into yet another boundary lesson.

I have always believed that love is supporting and lifting one another up—not breaking each other down for content or applause.

I still love my daughter. I am still proud of the woman she is becoming. I still pray for her and cheer for her from my corner of the world. But I also have to protect my own heart now.

I am too fragile—and frankly, too seasoned in this life—to continue being a doormat or a punching bag, even for people I love.

So this is where my boundary lives:

  • You can tell your story.
  • But you cannot continue to publicly distort mine without expecting me to step back and protect myself.

Maybe one day, if and when she becomes a mother, she’ll understand the deep, quiet, relentless selflessness that parenting really is—the way you hand your heart to your children and hope they won’t stomp on it when they’re older and hurting.

To Other Moms Who Feel Misunderstood

If you’re reading this and you, too, have been painted as the “bad mom,” the “emotionally unavailable” one, or the “problem” in someone else’s story—especially after surviving narcissistic abuse—please hear me:

  • Your memories matter.
  • Your version of events matters.
  • Your love and sacrifice count, even if they’re never fully recognized.

You can love your child and still hold boundaries. You can want reconciliation and still refuse to be humiliated. You can practice grace and still honor your own healing.

I have always believed that real love means supporting and lifting one another up—not tearing each other down.

God knows your heart, too. And even in the middle of heartbreak and confusion, I believe He is still capable of writing redemption into our stories. I don’t know exactly how my relationship with my daughter will heal or when, but I choose to keep a small light of hope burning—that one day we’ll be able to look at each other with softer eyes, kinder words, and a deeper understanding of how much we have always loved each other, even when she couldn’t see it clearly.

Why Boundaries Still Feel So Hard (Post Divorce)

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You’d think that nearly eight years after divorcing a narcissist and rebuilding my life, I’d be a pro at boundaries.

I talk about them. I teach them. I write about the importance of saying no, of choosing yourself, of walking away from what hurts.

And yet, here I am—still struggling to stick up for myself. Still feeling that old familiar pull to “just go along,” to keep the peace, to be the easy one, the accommodating one, the people pleaser.

Recently, that pattern exploded in my face.

The Moment I Lost It

I was with a friend who kept pushing and pushing—antagonizing me, poking at sore spots, and refusing to let it go. You know that feeling when your nervous system starts buzzing, your chest tightens, and you know you should say, “Enough. Please stop”? (which I did ask over and over…..)

Instead, I did what I’ve done a thousand times before: I tried to stay calm, tried to be polite, tried to “handle it.”

Until I couldn’t.

I erupted. I shouted. All the swallowed words and the pushed-down feelings came out in one messy wave. I am not proud of how I reacted—but I am also human. I apologized.

And here’s the kicker: instead of accepting my apology, this person escalated. They instigated another argument. They kept going, saying more hurtful things, twisting the situation, making it all my fault.

That dynamic? Oh, I know it far too well.

Being married to a narcissist taught me exactly how that script goes.

Why Boundaries Feel So Hard After Narcissistic Abuse

People on the outside might say, “You’re divorced now. It’s been years. Why is it still so hard for you to speak up?”

Because my nervous system doesn’t know it’s been eight years.

It remembers:

  • What happened when I did speak up.
  • The punishment for having needs.
  • The silent treatment, the rage, the gaslighting.
  • Being told I was “too sensitive,” “selfish,” “dramatic,” or “crazy.”

When you’ve lived with that long enough, your brain learns a simple survival rule:
Keeping the peace = staying safe.

So I became very good at:

  • Reading the room.
  • Anticipating what everyone else needed.
  • Avoiding conflict at all costs.
  • Sacrificing myself so no one else would explode.

That survival strategy has a name: people pleasing, or in trauma language, the fawn response. It’s what happens when fight or flight or freeze aren’t options—so you make yourself small, agreeable, and convenient.

Even after the narcissist is gone, the pattern often stays.

The Cost of “Going With the Flow”

Here’s the problem: when I keep “going with the flow,” I’m usually the one drowning.

I let the comments slide. I ignore the red flags. I downplay the knots in my stomach. I tell myself:

  • “It’s not worth the fight.”
  • “Don’t be dramatic.”
  • “Just let it go.”

But I’m not really letting it go. I’m swallowing it.

And all of that builds up inside me—until something small tips the scale and I snap. Then I walk away feeling ashamed of my reaction, while completely skipping over the hundred boundary violations that led up to it.

After a conflict, my heart hurts. My chest physically aches. I replay every word. I wonder if I overreacted, if I’m the problem, if I’m somehow broken.

That’s not just overthinking. That’s PTSD.

When Friends Trigger Old Wounds

The hardest part is when the hurt doesn’t come from a romantic partner—but from a friend.

I don’t get into arguments often. I really do try to forgive, move forward, and keep things light. But when something hits that old nerve—when I feel mocked, pushed, cornered, or intentionally antagonized—it links right back to those years of being married to a narcissist.

Suddenly it’s not just about this one argument.

It’s about:

  • Every time I was made to feel “crazy” for having a feeling.
  • Every time I apologized just to stop the fight.
  • Every time I wished someone would simply say, “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

So when this friend doubled down after I apologized—when they chose to keep hurting instead of healing—it stung in a very old, very deep place.

Part of me wants to be the bigger person, rise above, ignore their hurtful words and actions. But if I’m honest? That “ignore it” approach ends up eating me alive.

Boundaries Are Not Meanness

Here’s what I’m slowly, painfully learning:

  • Having boundaries doesn’t make me mean.
  • Saying “that hurt me” doesn’t make me dramatic.
  • Walking away from someone’s repeated disrespect doesn’t make me unforgiving.
  • Refusing to be antagonized is not overreacting.

It makes me healthy.

For people who were conditioned to be people pleasers, boundaries often feel like betrayal—of others, and even of our old identity.

We were praised for being “nice,” “flexible,” “easygoing.” No one clapped for us when we said, “That’s not okay with me.”

So today, instead of trying to be the “cool girl” who lets everything slide, I’m trying to become the woman who:

  • Notices the discomfort early, instead of waiting until she explodes.
  • Speaks up the first or second time, not the tenth.
  • Gives one sincere apology—but doesn’t chase people who weaponize her vulnerability.
  • Honors her feelings instead of gaslighting herself.

What I Want If You See Yourself in This

If you’re reading this and nodding along—if you, too, feel guilty every time you set a boundary—I want you to know:

You’re not weak because this is hard.
You are not “behind” because you’re still struggling years later.
You are unwinding years of programming that told you:

  • Everyone else comes first.
  • Your discomfort doesn’t matter.
  • Your role is to absorb other people’s moods.

That doesn’t disappear just because the divorce papers were signed.

Healing is not linear. Sometimes it shows up in ugly ways—like shouting at a friend and crying on the drive home, wondering how you got there.

But that eruption is also data.

It’s your body saying, “Something here is not okay for me. I’ve been trying to tell you.”

What I’m Working On Moving Forward

I don’t have all the answers. I’m still very much in this with you.

But here’s what I’m trying to practice now:

  • Micro-boundaries. Instead of waiting until I’m boiling, I’m learning to say, “Hey, that didn’t feel good,” when it’s still a simmer.
  • Checking safety. Not everyone is a safe person for deep vulnerability. If someone repeatedly mocks, dismisses, or antagonizes me, that’s not a “friendship problem”—it’s a values problem.
  • Owning my reaction, not their behavior. I can take responsibility for shouting without excusing the repeated poking that pushed me there.
  • Letting apologies be enough. I can apologize once sincerely. If someone uses that as an opening to attack me further, that tells me everything I need to know.
  • Honoring my nervous system. If my heart is racing, my chest is tight, and I feel that trauma response—that matters. My body is not lying to me.

One Last Thing

My heart hurts after conflict. I feel it physically. And when someone I care about chooses to wound instead of repair, it reopens old scars.

But perhaps the invitation in all of this is not to become harder—but to become clearer.

Clearer about what I will and won’t tolerate.
Clearer about who gets access to me.
Clearer about the fact that my peace is not up for debate.

I’m still learning. I still slip back into people-pleasing. I still sometimes stay quiet until I can’t anymore.

But eight years after divorcing a narcissist, here’s what I know for sure:

I am worth protecting.
My boundaries matter.
And loving myself means listening when my heart says, This is not okay.

If that’s where you are too, you’re not alone. We can learn this together—one boundary at a time.

Break These Chains

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I wrote Break These Chains as a declaration of strength, healing, and transformation. For so long, I carried the weight of my past—replaying the pain, the hurt, and the struggles. But I realized that as long as I kept telling the story of my suffering, I was keeping myself trapped in it.

I didn’t want to be defined by what broke me—I wanted to be defined by how I rose. I wanted to stop telling the story of my suffering year and start telling the story of my thriving year.

This song is about pushing through the darkness, learning to love myself again, and truly letting go—not just for the sake of moving on, but for the sake of my own peace and happiness. It’s about choosing forgiveness, not because they deserve it, but because I deserve to be free.

I wrote this song not just for myself, but for anyone who feels stuck, who feels like they’re drowning in their past. I want you to know—you don’t have to stay there. You can break those chains, you can heal, and you can thrive. This is my anthem of survival, and I hope it helps you find your own.

Check out this awesome song I created with Donna: https://app.musicdonna.com/fTT67GfG

Break These Chains…

I was losing myself,

Fading away,

Trapped in a story

I didn’t wanna stay.

Every tear that fell,

Every sleepless night,

Kept me in the dark,

But I’m stepping into light.

What you’re not changing,

You’re choosing to be,

So I made the choice

To set myself free.

I had to break these chains,

Let the past slip away,

Cut the weight of the hurt,

No, it won’t make me stay.

I had to learn to forgive,

Let go of the pain,

I had to love myself again.

I’m a survivor,

And I’m walking tall,

I’ve walked through the fire,

But I’m stronger through it all.

The past tried to hold me,

But I broke away,

Now I’m choosing to rise

Every single day.

What you’re not changing,

You’re choosing to be,

So I made the choice

To set myself free.

I had to break these chains,

Let the past slip away,

Cut the weight of the hurt,

No, it won’t make me stay.

I had to learn to forgive,

Let go of the pain,

I had to love myself again.

Forgiving ain’t easy,

But it’s how I move on,

It’s not for the one who hurt me,

But so I can be strong.

I found love in God,

And I found love in me,

Now I walk in the light,

Now I finally see.

I had to break these chains,

Let the past slip away,

Cut the weight of the hurt,

No, it won’t make me stay.

I had to learn to forgive,

Let go of the pain,

I had to love myself again.

[Outro]

Yeah, I love myself again…

And I’m finally free.