Hi friends;

We all have stories. This one persisted, working for me rather than against me. Once I saw the gift and opportunity it offered, I was humbled—not shamed. Self-forgiveness is paramount. It creates freedom to learn and begin anew.

I quit making New Year’s resolutions years ago. One more diet wasn’t going to change me. One more gym membership wasn’t going to motivate me.

What changed me wasn’t resolve—it was responsibility.

After the resolutions came to-do lists. Making a will. Starting an IRA. Practical things I hadn’t made time for. Those items kept me valid, grounded in grown-up things. Before I was a child dreaming. Now I was a grown-up, doing.

The doing still didn’t fix what I was missing—the performance was just another replacement. The emptiness was still there. The conditioning of not being valid unless I had the right partner in my life. The inferences in conversations that led me to continue questioning myself. Clearly if they kept asking, that must mean I wasn’t enough. Seeds of self-doubt.

And then I did it again—I fell into a relationship that became a marriage. I thought this is what all my hard work had earned. The appearance that I had finally arrived and earned the love of my life at last. The fairy tale was finally about to come true.

The love bombing was intense. The come-here, go-away was a perfect hook. The gaslighting was textbook. My kids started feeling it. One revealing conversation on our honeymoon and I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. It took two more years to walk away. When I did, the aftermath stirred up the deep dysfunction I’d buried. And all roads led back to me. Again.

I remember sitting at the table, looking out our large picture window, feeling lost and full of self-pity, swimming in its wonderful victimhood. Keeping me away from myself and owning none of it.

“Why did you let this happen to me? I’m doing all the right things— following all the rules. I don’t fucking understand.”

And then I heard it—

“Why not you? This is nothing compared to what life has in store for you. Your parents will die. Your children will face tragedy. You will face death. This is nothing. It is time to grow the fuck up.”

Well shit—I chuckled.

I’ve always been impatient with the middle parts. The learning parts. Historically I always tried to skip to the happy ending where I was going to be rescued. I learned to look away from the hard parts and leaned on fantasy—that someone would find me and protect me. It was a scene from my favorite childhood TV shows, like when Lassie would find Jeff and take him home safe to the family that loved him. But I wasn’t a character in a made-up story. And no one was coming to rescue me.

In the silence after that moment, I started to recognize how badly I spoke to myself, how my inner dialogue was far from a friend. The more I learned about narcissism, the more I learned about myself and why I was a ripe target. I knew I couldn’t keep doing what I’d been doing, and I was willing to do whatever it took to stop repeating it.

My expectations of the world and of myself were so mismanaged then. While I needed responsibility, I saw myself as a failure. Where I needed connection, I saw myself as unworthy. Where I saw myself as wounded, I dismissed myself as being broken.

I had to forgive myself there—I finally allowed myself to go back and witness it all for the first time without judgment or wanting wrongs to be righted.

The pain that came up was immense. It unearthed anger I had no idea lived in me. I cried so hard that day and for so long. I felt it all. I let it run over me and through me like the monstrous river that it was.

Letting go unraveled a world of pain within me—nothing I’d allowed myself to feel before. The disappointment, the hatred, the pity, the self-righteousness—the darkness of shame I’d held back for years.

I let it explode outward. I let it be real for the first time in my life. It didn’t come out sideways. It came out whole, with all the intensity I’d suppressed.

I welcomed it, felt it, and touched it. I held it, wrapped it up in my heart and kissed it—soothing it until it slept quietly and calmly. I smiled and said I love you.

I forgave myself. All of it. What wasn’t mine, and the parts that were. The relief was shocking. I felt whole. My fragmented pieces weren’t running away. They were welcome. They were part of me. I took responsibility for my bad decisions, for my confusion and my wanting.

No one had ever said I grew up too fast. No one had ever given me permission to grieve and look at the trauma as trauma. It was left with me to figure out.

It was then I became responsible to myself. To my voice. To my child inside. Sometimes she still screams for understanding and compassion when the anger creeps in. She wants to be seen without sarcasm, innuendo, or criticism. She wants the soft touch on her cheek when her tears fall—to be held and comforted from the angry parts of the world. I can give that to myself now.

I woke up to myself that day, many years ago, and saw opportunity rather than obstruction. I learned that rescue isn’t coming because I don’t need it. The work is mine to do, and I can be both Lassie and Jeff—the one who finds myself and brings myself home.

I now find my voice, my reason, my next chapter—without performing.

This is where I’m standing.

Telling my stories is how I lean into what’s next.

Deanna