I started a page and titled it My Mother’s Perspective. At first, I thought her story began with my father, with a marriage that hurt more than it held, with a divorce that left wreckage behind. But I was wrong. Her life did not start when I was born. It started when she was a child. I asked questions. I listened. And I learned that my mother grew up with a mother who spoke through complaints, who saw the world through dissatisfaction, who filled the home with negativity instead of safety. I can laugh it off now. I don’t feel threatened by it. But my mother was small. She couldn’t escape it. She lived inside it. That atmosphere was her home. What hurts me most is not what my mother did, but what she could not give— emotional presence, physical touch, comfort when I was breaking. There were times I cried and cried. She saw my pain. She heard it. But she was frozen, unsure how to step into it with me. And now I understand why. The nurturing she received came only from her father. She was never taught how to communicate because no one communicated with her. She was never shown how to hold emotions without fear. I see the generational trauma clearly now. I know where it began and how it traveled. Still, I refuse to reduce her to what she lacked. She has been abundant in so many ways. She stepped into the space my daughter’s father left behind. She helped me raise my child. She stayed. Every time I felt emotionally neglected, it was never her intention. She was doing the best she could with what she was given. And knowing this does not erase the pain, but it brings peace. Because now I know— my mother loved me, even when she didn’t know how to show it.

A mother who is doing her very best with the deck of cards she has been dealt.

2026. New year resolutions: This year, I choose self-discipline—not as punishment, but as devotion to the life I want to build. I commit to growing my financial intelligence, learning to respect and protect my future with clarity and care. I will seek balance— between effort and rest, movement and stillness, giving and receiving. I will nourish my body with a better diet, listening to what it needs instead of silencing it. I practice patience— with my progress, my healing, and myself. I choose self-preservation, honoring my boundaries as sacred. I will trust myself— my instincts, my timing, my inner knowing. I allow myself to find what was lost, and welcome back the parts of me that wandered in survival. I release the need for external approval and learn to grant it to myself. I will work toward self-acceptance, even on the days it feels uncomfortable. I am learning to quit my thoughts— to quiet the noise, to live more fully in the present. I commit to moving my body with intention, going to the gym at least three days a week, not for perfection, but for strength and longevity. This year, I show up for myself— consistently, honestly, and with love.

So so beautiful! @Tina Metzger Braxton

Module 4- Letters to unloved Parts: Inner Child+Inner Teen healing through writing. I am gentle now with the little girl inside me. I stand in front of her the way no one ever did, arms outstretched, learning what it means to guard something sacred. If I could, I would walk her backward through time, not to erase what happened, but to whisper what she never knew— that curiosity is not consent, that kindness is not an invitation for harm, that innocence is not a flaw. I would take her hand and guide her out of rooms she entered without knowing what waited in the shadows. Not because she was careless, but because she believed the world loved the way she did. She did her best. She always did. She loved freely, because love, to her, was never meant to be rationed. She believed love wins— and in her heart, it always did. But there were words that bruised deeper than silence, and actions no amount of love could undo. She could choose to love or hate, but she could not choose how her love would be twisted, misread, or hunted. They called her love weakness, until she began to believe them. Until she wondered if loving was a mistake, if softness was dangerous, if her open heart was something to be ashamed of. Still, she loved. Because it was stitched into her before the world learned how to wound. But somewhere along the way, she stopped loving herself— not out of cruelty, but because she was never shown that it mattered. How does someone who knows love forget to turn it inward? How does a heart so full learn to starve itself? That little girl grew into a woman who is finally learning where her love belongs. She is no longer pouring it into empty hands or unworthy places. She is offering it to someone patient, someone faithful, someone who has waited quietly through every season of neglect. That someone is her. And in teaching that little girl how to be held, how to be safe, how to be cherished, I am learning— slowly, tenderly— how to love myself. This is how healing begins.

2025 This was the year I stopped running from my past and learned it could no longer name me. I turned toward the shadows I once feared, and discovered they were not dangerous— only waiting to be met with care. I learned that healing is not force, but gentleness. That the weight I carried for so long had grown familiar, so familiar I didn’t notice it until it began to lift. Only then did I realize how many unseen pounds had been pressing against my spirit. I learned to sit with my emotions without abandoning myself— to stay grounded when the waters grew deep, to feel without drowning, to listen without being pulled under. This became my foundation, my quiet promise: no feeling would take me away from me. I no longer meet my shadows with fear. I meet them with understanding, knowing they are not here to harm me but to help me release what no longer needs to be carried. This year taught me who I am: humble in my healing, patient with my becoming, whole— never broken. I am my present, not my past. I surrender what I cannot control, protecting my energy so I can tend carefully to what I can. I learned that progress does not rush, that slow steps still move forward, and that there is no finish line— only growth. My mindset softened. My vision widened. Challenges became invitations instead of obstacles, lessons instead of reasons to quit. And though much of this year was heavy, I now see purpose woven through every moment, each one serving my healing in ways I couldn’t yet understand. What a year it has been. And for all of it— the light and the dark, the ease and the ache— I am forever grateful.

Thank you!