14d • General discussion
Letters to the unloved Part
Survival Had a Voice
Today was a good day.
It was a good week.
And it was also a reckoning.
A reckoning with fear.
Not the loud, obvious kind—but the quiet fear that keeps your mouth shut, your truth hidden, and your heart folded in on itself. The fear that says: If I speak honestly, they’ll leave. They’ll be mad. They’ll see me differently.
That fear has followed me most closely in my relationship with my children.
For years, I carried the belief that I was a bad mother. That I failed them. And because of that belief, I learned to stay silent. I didn’t talk about how I felt. I didn’t name what hurt me or how things landed inside my body. I buried it all—layer after layer—under everything else I didn’t know how to face.
Eventually, the weight became unbearable.
When it surfaced, it didn’t come out gently. It came out as explosions. As over-explaining. As lying. As judging. As words and actions that hurt others—and myself.
For a long time, I didn’t think of myself as an angry person. I didn’t see myself as someone who played the victim. But clarity has a way of humbling you. I can see now that I was miserable. Broken. Stuck in survival mode for so long that I forgot it wasn’t supposed to feel like this forever.
Lying became a language of survival.
I lied to eat.
I lied to stay safe.
I lied to get through doors that should never have been open to a child.
I lied about my age—telling men I was older when I was fifteen or sixteen. I lied to get into bars, hotels, places I had no business being. After a while, the line between truth and fiction blurred so completely that even I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Not all lies were intentional. Some were instinct. Some were protection. Some were desperation.
I lied to avoid being beaten. I lied to escape assault. I lied to adults who claimed they loved me but still hurt me. I moved from foster home to foster home, learning quickly which stories kept me safe and which ones got me punished.
I lied to my father so he wouldn’t retaliate. I lied to the police so someone could come back home—because how was I supposed to survive alone with two kids, no job, and a life that kept uprooting itself every few months?
My mind was loud. Constant. Unforgiving.
At home, everything collided—crying children, a drunk husband, fists disguised as love, begging God to make it stop. There were moments I wanted to disappear entirely. Moments I prayed not for healing, but for release.
And still—I lied.
I wiped my tears. I hid my pain. Because showing emotion had always come with consequences. I learned to smile and say, I’m okay. Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.
My body moved like a machine.
Up. Down. Stand. Sit. Survive.
One lie stacked on top of another.
I told my children, “Stay with Papa. Mommy will be back.”
Three years passed.
When my daughter was angry, I didn’t understand why. I didn’t yet see that I had repeated the same wound that had been inflicted on me. I didn’t recognize that abandonment doesn’t always come from cruelty—sometimes it comes from broken people trying to survive.
I truly believed I was trying to be a good mother.
But the truth is, I didn’t know how.
I was a child raising children. No roadmap. No guidance. No example of stability. I didn’t know how to budget, save, plan, or dream long-term—yet I was responsible for shaping two human lives.
I repeated patterns I swore I never would. I lived inside the same scarcity mindset my own mother carried. I knew I was wrong at times, but I didn’t know how to admit it—because I didn’t yet know how to be honest with myself.
So I avoided hard conversations. I felt unintelligent, unqualified. I didn’t know how to talk about life, emotions, or responsibility.
When my children were babies, I treated them like something fragile and beautiful—but distant. As they grew older, I treated them like friends. I leaned on them emotionally, just as my mother had leaned on me, never understanding how heavy that burden was for them to carry.
When they asked questions, I lacked patience. I responded with irritation instead of curiosity. I struggled with affection—not because I didn’t love them, but because I was terrified of causing harm.
I thought distance was protection.
The younger children had stability the older ones never did—homes, belongings, vacations. But those comforts also became my hiding place. I distracted myself with providing so I wouldn’t have to face the scared little girl still living inside me.
That fear turned inward.
It became illness.
Anger.
Dependency.
I was slowly disappearing—medication by medication, bite by bite—burying myself under the weight of guilt and shame.
I grieve what I missed.
Being their role model.
Being their safe place.
Being their favorite person.
I missed laughter because laughter had always been taken from me when I let my guard down. Taken by addiction. Taken by violence. Taken by chaos.
And yet—here is the truth that brings me peace:
I did the best I could with the tools I had.
A carpenter cannot build a house with only nails or only a hammer.
I am human. I made mistakes—many of them. And I am deeply sorry. I see now how my children may have felt unseen, unheard, unloved. I understand how frightening it must have been to be young and confused, longing for a mother who didn’t yet know how to mother herself.
I cannot change the past. But I can name it. I can take responsibility without drowning in it. I can learn.
And from this place, I write back.
Response Letter: From the Healed Self
Dear Unloved Parts,
I see you now.
I see the little girl who learned early that silence meant safety. I see the teenager who lied not to deceive, but to survive. I see the woman who carried impossible weight without ever being taught how to set it down.
You were never evil.
You were never weak.
You were never careless with love.
You were overwhelmed.
You made choices with the knowledge and resources you had at the time. You were building a life without a blueprint, raising children while still trying to raise yourself.
It’s okay that you didn’t know how to hug safely.
It’s okay that your voice came out loud before it learned how to be calm.
It’s okay that you confused survival with strength.
You are learning now.
And learning later does not mean you failed—it means you lived long enough to heal.
You are allowed to grieve what was lost without punishing yourself forever. You are allowed to hope for reconnection without demanding it. You are allowed to love your children while also loving the child you once were.
You are no longer in survival mode.
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to tell the truth.
You are allowed to be gentle—with them, and with yourself.
I’m here now.
You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.
With compassion,
Your Healed Self
5
3 comments
Letters to the unloved Part
powered by
skool.com/phoenix-raiin-1819
Phoenix Raiin Where the wounded become warriors.Transform pain into power through shadow work, healing, and rebirth. Rise into who you’re meant to be.
Suggested communities
Powered by