For most of my life, I felt like an outsider within my own immediate family.
Whether intentional or not, I was made to feel like I didn’t quite belong.
I was talked about.
I was made fun of—my looks, the way I spoke, the way I walked.
As a child, I became deeply self-conscious. I carried constant stomach aches that I now understand were my body responding to stress and emotional pressure I didn’t yet have language for.
There was one person who made me feel safe.
My aunt—my mother’s older sister—who passed away in 1997. She helped raise me, and for a long time, I believed she was my mother. Losing her created a quiet absence in my life that I didn’t fully understand until much later.
As I grew older, I overheard conversations about me becoming “just like my mother.” Those words stayed with me. I internalized them. And as I moved into adulthood, I did everything in my power to become the opposite of what I had experienced. Not out of resentment, but out of intention.
Over time, the harm shifted from emotional to tangible.
I had people in my immediate family lie on me.
Steal from me.
Take my inheritance.
Even steal my identity.
All of this happened while I was already grieving.
I lost my grandmother in 2020.
My father in 2021.
My grandfather in 2024.
While I was mourning, I was being taken from.
I became isolated. I was treated as though I no longer existed. And at some point, I realized I had to reclaim my power—because I was allowing others to define me during one of the most vulnerable periods of my life.
I haven’t completely cut off all family members, but I keep them at a distance. Peace requires space.
My grandmother used to ask me to stay silent for the sake of harmony.
Don’t say anything.
Please, just do it for me.
Now that she’s no longer here, I’ve found my voice.
Not being able to speak for myself took a toll on me. It shaped how I moved through the world. For a long time, I allowed people to treat me however they wanted because I believed—somewhere deep down—that it was what I deserved.
I know now that it isn’t.
Today, I stand differently. I stand in my power. I demand the respect I couldn’t claim as a child, a teenager, or even in my early adulthood. I pay attention to patterns. When I notice them repeating, I create distance. When necessary, I cut communication.
I am the type of person who will defend you even when you’re not in the room. That energy has not been reciprocated within my family. And so I choose when—and if—I allow myself into those spaces.
It is rare. It is intentional.
In the future, I may cut cords completely. For now, I control the narrative. What is said about me is not my responsibility—especially when it isn’t true.
My healing does not require their permission.
My peace does not require their understanding.
This is part of my glow up.
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