“Transform Pain into Peace”
What advice would you give to your teenage self?
You are stronger than you think. Even when the world feels like it’s against you, and people you should be able to trust fail you, you have an inner resilience that will carry you through. That tiny, scared, or angry part of you is actually a warrior in disguise.
At an age when I should have been learning how to play, I was instead learning how to survive change. I didn’t understand courtrooms or legal terms, but I understood loss. I understood separation. I understood that life had shifted in a way I couldn’t explain, only feel.
My grandmother became my safe place. My protector. My anchor. She stepped in when everything else fell apart, carrying responsibilities that were never meant to be hers — and she did it with strength, sacrifice, and unwavering love. Because of her, I had stability. Because of her, I had a chance.
Still, the absence lingered.
There were questions no one had answers for. And even when answers came, they didn’t bring comfort — only more layers of confusion. How do you love someone you barely know? How do you miss someone who was never truly there? How do you grieve a relationship that never had time to exist?
I carried those questions quietly.
Growing up, I learned that addiction is not just a personal battle — it is a family storm. It touches everyone in its path. It reshapes homes, childhoods, futures. And often, it leaves behind children who grow up trying to understand what was never their fault.
But even in that pain, compassion began to grow.
Because brokenness does not mean absence of love. Sometimes it simply means the battle was bigger than the person.
And that truth — as painful as it is — became part of my healing.
I disappeared —
not because I stopped loving,
but because I was losing myself.
I went silent to hear my own heartbeat again.
I stepped back to rebuild what life tried to destroy.
They called it distance.
They called it change.
They called it abandonment.
But it was survival.
I needed space to remember who I was
before the pain named me.
Before the trauma defined me.
Before exhaustion became my identity.
And when I healed —
when my soul stood tall again —
I looked around
and realized
many were gone.
Not because I failed them,
but because growth rearranges alignment.
Some were assigned to the struggle,
not the breakthrough.
So I walk forward —
not bitter,
not broken,
but free.
Stop putting “write” on your to-do list
Put “show up to the page for 10 minutes”💪🔥
Writing always ends up on the “important but somehow always last” list.
Not because i don’t care — but because writing asks you to slow down, feel, remember, and be honest, and life keeps demanding everything else first. Especially when you’re the one holding everybody together.
In a world of secrets deep and old,
The Sins of the Mother and Father unfold.
A tale of love and betrayal’s stain,
Bound by choices that cause much pain.
In the first book, dark and cold,
The Mother’s sin, a story told.
Her past haunts her, shadows cast,
Her secrets buried, but they’ll last.
The Father, too, carries his own weight,
Regrets and errors, sealed by fate.
His heart torn by what he’s done,
Searching for redemption, yet none.
The second book, the truth revealed,
Families shattered, wounds unhealed.
The sins of the parents, passed to kin,
A cycle of pain that traps within.
But in the final book, a chance for light,
Forgiveness blooms, wrongs made right.
The children break the chains of old,
And write their stories, bold and untold.
So let us learn from this trilogy,
That our actions ripple endlessly.
May we face our sins with grace and rue,
And find redemption, pure and true.
In a world of secrets deep and old,
The Sins of the Mother and Father unfold.
A tale of love and betrayal’s stain,
Bound by choices that cause much pain.
In the first book, dark and cold,
The Mother’s sin, a story told.
Her past haunts her, shadows cast,
Her secrets buried, but they’ll last.
The Father, too, carries his own weight,
Regrets and errors, sealed by fate.
His heart torn by what he’s done,
Searching for redemption, yet none.
The second book, the truth revealed,
Families shattered, wounds unhealed.
The sins of the parents, passed to kin,
A cycle of pain that traps within.
But in the final book, a chance for light,
Forgiveness blooms, wrongs made right.
The children break the chains of old,
And write their stories, bold and untold.
So let us learn from this trilogy,
That our actions ripple endlessly.
May we face our sins with grace and rue,
And find redemption, pure and true.
Beach or mountains? Which do you prefer? Why?
For me, the beach wins every time. There’s something deeply calming about standing at the shoreline and watching the water stretch out into the distance. The gentle rhythm of the waves and the stillness of the horizon bring me a sense of peace that I rarely find anywhere else. It’s like the world slows down for a moment, and I can just breathe.
(The Bitterness Trilogy: My True Life Story – Chapter 2)
There are feelings that don’t yet have names when you’re a child — but your heart still knows what they mean. I didn’t know the word abandonment, but I knew exactly what it felt like.
From the earliest memories I’ve been told, my mother would leave me in my crib with soiled diapers and bottles of spoiled milk from days before. She would disappear into the streets for days at a time, leaving me alone to fend for myself, even as a baby. I would cry until I couldn’t anymore — hungry, tired, and confused — waiting for someone who would not return.
Imagine the loneliness of a child so young, already learning how to survive in silence. Those early experiences became my first lessons in independence, though they were born from pain, not strength.
My Aunt Lila often shared the stories of those early days. At just fourteen years old, she would walk from school to my mother’s apartment because my grandmother had asked her to check on me. When she arrived, she would find me alone — sometimes hungry, sometimes dirty, but always waiting.
Lila took it upon herself to carry me home. My grandmother’s house wasn’t far, but every walk must have felt like carrying the weight of what no child should see. My grandmother, though firm, was filled with both anger and compassion. I was her first grandchild — the daughter of her son who had chosen the streets instead of fatherhood. She was determined to get me out of that situation before something tragic happened.
I wish I could tell you that once my grandmother stepped in, my mother fought to get clean, to come for me, and to become the mother I needed. But the truth is, she never did. She didn’t fight for me. She didn’t even try.
My grandmother eventually took her to court, and my mother lost her parental rights. I was told she was still struggling with addiction and pregnant with my brother — born just eleven months after me, what some call “Siamese twins.”
I met him for the first time when I was about five years old. My mother came to visit, along with my uncle, who was in a wheelchair. I don’t remember much from that day — just that it felt short, awkward, and heavy. It must have broken her heart to see me and then leave me again, but she still didn’t return. She never came back.
Maybe it destroyed her to lose me, but it destroyed me too — in ways I didn’t understand until years later.
I felt lost.
Unwanted.
Forgotten.
But even in that pain, God was already beginning the work of healing that I could not yet see.
🌷 Reflection:
Bitterness doesn’t always grow overnight. Sometimes, it begins as confusion, then turns into grief, and slowly hardens into anger.
But when I look back now, I see something else growing in that same soil — resilience, purpose, and a hunger to break the cycle.
🕊️ Tags:
#HealingJourney #FaithAndForgiveness #BitternessTrilogy #ChildhoodHealing #TestimonyOfGrace #FaithOverFear
“Healing from Bitterness, One Step at a Time.” 