Healing is a Journey, Not a Destination
Most days, I feel like I’ve moved on. I don’t think of my family much anymore, and the anger that once consumed me has mostly faded. But then a day like today comes along, reminding me that healing is not a straight path—it’s a winding journey, sometimes calm, sometimes stormy, and never quite complete. More than that, today reminded me that I am not the only one still carrying wounds from the past.
There is a misconception that adult children than have removed themselves from their parents and other family members feel no pain or made their decision lightly. I can tell you from experience, the decision to remove myself and my family from the environment created by my abusive mother and the family that enabled her was one that took over two decades for me to make and sliced me to my core. Literally, it felt as if I was stabbed through the heart by a huge sword, forever severing me from the family I had known and desperately had wanted to be accepted by my entire life.
Additionally, when an adult child severs contact with their family members, we are acutely aware that it affects everyone else in our family, to include our children.
Today, my daughter’s first camera died. It was a cheap little thing, a child’s camera that barely held ten pictures at a time. But when she realized it was broken beyond repair, sorrow overtook her. My husband didn’t immediately understand why, but I did. On that camera was a single photo of my dad—her grandfather. She was very close to him, and even now, she misses him deeply. In her mind, that photo was more than an image—it was a last tether to the memories of sitting beside him, watching golf while he napped.
My heart broke for her, not because of the camera, but because she knew, as I did, that she would likely never see him again.
Since I permanently cut ties with my family almost two years ago, I had taken down every photo of them. Seeing their faces was a daily reminder of how I had been treated by my mother for decades and how the rest of the family stood by and let it happen. But I knew, even then, that it wouldn’t be right to erase those photos forever. My kids might want them one day. Today was that day for my daughter.
So, I dug through my digital archives and found old photos of my father, my mother, my brother, and others. I emailed them to my daughter. (Yes, my 8-year-old has an email address. No, you can’t have it. It’s mainly for school.)
Scrolling through those pictures felt like an emotional flogging. But the pain I felt wasn’t for myself—it was for my children.
I know my father loved, and perhaps still loves, his grandchildren. But no one else in my family did. I can still hear the weight of my mother’s disappointment when I told her I was pregnant with my daughter, Vikki, and that I was keeping her. Her response: “Oh. Well, I guess that’s your choice.”
Fast forward a few years, and she was just as unenthused to hear about the coming birth of my son, Wyatt. My mother didn’t love my children—she loved the attention they gave her. She loved the validation of being a grandmother. The rest of my family showed obligatory interest, just as they had with me. Their concern was never real love or connection—it was about how my mother made them feel: important, wealthy, admired.
But I found another photo today, one that had me thinking about how far we’ve come as a family. It was of my husband and our children sprawled out on an Extended-Stay hotel bed, likely watching Star Wars, while I worked on my first job post-military retirement. It was taken just after we had moved to Virginia from Oklahoma for my new role as a consultant. We didn’t have a home yet, and so I was working remotely from the hotel room with the kiddos and Beau entertaining themselves and getting to know the area. It was uncomfortable and crazy, and if I’m being honest…it was wonderful.
It was us. Figuring shit out. Making it work. Pressing ever forward.
That photo reminded me of something crucial: When I made the choice to retire from the military, almost everyone outside of my husband and children doubted me.
My mother assumed I wouldn’t be able to provide for my family.
My father assumed I wouldn’t be smart enough to find a home worthy of them.
The rest of my family could care less what I did or how we did it, as ever, we were just the extras…only ever around to validate their existence.
Coworkers and so-called friends—most of whom are no longer in my life—thought I was insane for not taking a safe federal job on base. They couldn’t fathom that I dared to dream of more.
That was three and a half years ago.
Since then, I have:
Worked as a consultant, rising to Senior Business Analyst and increasing my salary well over 6 digits.
Become a published and syndicated political commentator, featured on podcasts and radio nationwide.
Secured a role as a Policy Analyst for the federal government, only to leave it behind to chase my true passion.
Begun building my career as a fiction author, with my first novel nearly complete.
Started a PhD in Law and Policy, maintaining a flawless 4.0 GPA.
Successfully homeschooled my children, with Vikki reading at a 6th-grade level in 3rd grade and Wyatt showing incredible academic and creative skills in Kindergarten.
My past cut deep wounds into my soul, and my family hurt not just me, but also the family I built. It will take time to fully heal, to truly forgive. But I know this—I am not what my family and others once tried to define me as.
I am stronger than anyone will ever fully know.
I am intelligent, capable, and relentless.
I am a good mother, a good wife, and a good person.
I have stories aching to be told and wisdom to offer my community.
People may try to push me aside, minimize my existence, and underestimate me. But they will not break me. I will never give up on myself or my family.
I figure shit out. I make it work. I press ever forward.
We figure shit out. We make it work. We press ever forward.
We are just getting started.
