Raised on Their Best Intentions—Healed on My Own Terms

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” ~Kahlil Gibran

There are two versions of me.

There’s the one I am now—the grounded, present woman who holds space for others, who guides people toward healing, who walks barefoot through the grass and whispers affirmations while sipping her coffee.

And then there’s the other version. The one who barely made it. The one who used to stare into her fridge not out of hunger but as a distraction from the ache in her chest. The one who didn’t feel at home in her body. The one who was certain no one could ever understand the weight she carried, let alone help lift it.

If you’ve ever felt pain that rewired your entire being, you know:

Trauma doesn’t just live in the mind.

It takes root in the bones, in the pauses between conversations, in the way you flinch when someone raises their voice—even slightly.

For years, I was operating on autopilot. From the outside, I seemed fine. But internally, I was haunted by invisible wounds and unspoken memories.

Then came the moment I will never forget—when I confronted the very people who gave me life.

I was in my twenties. I’d been carrying years of resentment, confusion, and heartache. Every harsh word, every time I felt small—it all built up inside me.

And I finally let it spill out during an emotionally charged conversation. I brought up a pattern that had deeply impacted me, hoping to be heard.

I expected remorse, maybe even repair.

But instead, I heard: “We did the best we could.” It was calm, maybe even resigned. It wasn’t unkind, but it felt like a door closing instead of opening. In that moment, I felt both understanding and a quiet ache, realizing we weren’t going to meet in the middle.

Those six words didn’t offer relief. They didn’t soften the years of damage. Because understanding your parents’ limitations doesn’t erase your pain. But it does offer you a choice:

To carry it forward. Or to finally put it down.

That was the turning point.

I realized I didn’t want to live stuck anymore—stuck in old stories, like believing I had to suppress my emotions to keep the peace, or that loyalty meant silence; stuck in shame and in patterns I didn’t choose. I wanted to heal. Not just for myself, but for every version of me that had felt unseen.

So I started to write.

Not for anyone else, but for me.

When I couldn’t speak the truth out loud, I wrote it down. My journals became confessionals. My pen, a lifeline. My pain, my teacher.

Eventually, I found tools that helped me dig even deeper—meditation, somatic work, subconscious reprogramming, hypnotherapy.

I learned that the subconscious mind is like a computer. It stores everything you’ve ever believed about yourself—especially the painful parts. If you don’t update the programming, you’ll keep replaying the same loop:

I’m not enough. It’s my fault. Love has to be earned. I must stay small to be safe.

And when you realize that you can change that inner script? That’s when everything shifts.

In 2020, I became a certified hypnotherapist. But truthfully, that was just the official title. My real training began the day I stopped running from myself.

Through that work, I began to rewire old beliefs, release trauma stored in my body, and speak to my younger self with compassion instead of criticism.

I finally started to feel free. Not perfect. Not enlightened. But freer.

Free to cry and not apologize for it. Free to take up space. Free to stop fixing everyone else so I could finally tend to myself.

Today, I help others do the same.

Not because I have all the answers, but because I remember what it felt like to not even know which questions to ask.

And if you’re reading this right now, I want to say something I wish someone had said to me: You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not unworthy. You are a soul who has walked through fire—and you’re still here.

Healing is not linear.

You will have days where you feel like you’ve regressed, where the sadness feels fresh, where you question everything. That’s okay.

Progress isn’t perfection. It’s presence. And your presence—your willingness to look at your pain instead of running from it—is what will change your life.

You don’t need to hustle your way to healing. You just need to return to yourself.

So here’s what I’ve learned, in case it helps you:

1. Triggers are teachers in disguise. They point to wounds that need tending. For me, being interrupted or talked over would trigger an intense emotional response—one rooted in earlier experiences where my voice didn’t feel valued. I also noticed that certain tones of voice, especially condescending ones, could instantly make me feel small.

2. You are allowed to feel anger at those who hurt you and compassion for the fact they didn’t know better.

3. The body holds trauma, but it also holds the key to release. Pay attention to your breath. Your posture. Your gut feelings.

4. You can forgive and still hold boundaries, like saying no without over-explaining or stepping away from emotionally unsafe conversations. I’ve also created space by recognizing when it’s not my role to carry someone else’s emotional process—especially if it comes at the cost of my well-being.

5. You can grieve and still grow.

And most of all: You can rewrite your story at any time. Because you are not your past. You are the author of your next chapter.

So let it be one of reclamation.

Let it be the moment you stop shrinking and start rising. Let it be the chapter where you stop surviving and start living.

You are the light you’ve been looking for.