Excerpt
In the last episode, I talked about mother wounds—how words and moments can leave you feeling abandoned, rejected, and unseen.
For me, all I wanted was to be loved and appreciated by my mother. But the harder I tried, the more it felt like I failed. I remember telling a close friend, “She loves my sister… but she doesn’t love me like that.” And it wasn’t only what was said to my face—it was hearing myself spoken down about through someone else, like I was the warning story.
I learned two kinds of healing.
The first was distance. Space gave me room to breathe, think, write, and ask: How do I forgive without pretending it didn’t happen? How do I remember without reliving?
Then life brought me back. God brought me back into the very house I once vowed I’d never return to, and it felt like time travel—like I was sixteen again, standing inside an atmosphere that held deep shame and heartbreak. Except this time, healing had to be face-to-face.
So I started doing the work: praying for her from a better place, writing letters for myself, asking God the hard questions, and pursuing perspective—because understanding doesn’t excuse harm, but it can keep pain from owning you.
And forgiveness wasn’t me approving what was said. Forgiveness was me refusing to let those words become a seed in my spirit.
Reflection
You can forgive and still remember.
You can honor and still have boundaries.
You can name what happened without letting it become who you are.
Prompts
What did I need from my mother that I learned to give myself?
What words do I still carry that don’t belong to my future?
What does “honor” look like for me—with boundaries included?
What would it mean to forgive without minimizing?