I woke up today with a heavy heart, overwhelmed by a realization that feels like a quiet tragedy in my life. For so long—too long—I wasn’t a good person. For 30 years, I carried patterns and behaviors that now fill me with shame. It wasn’t until the last decade that I began the hard work of change. I know personal growth is a normal part of life, but for me, the changes I’ve made feel monumental. I am a completely different person in every way.
Some achievements have come painfully slowly to me, things that seem to come naturally to others. For years, I couldn’t connect with the idea of being a mother. Inside, I felt like a 10-year-old girl. When someone brought up the topic of children—even when I was 30—I felt deep shame, as if they were asking a child about having babies. The idea of carrying life inside of me? It was unimaginable, alien even. I pictured it as something invasive, almost like an unwanted presence inside my body.
And yet, here I am now, living a life that once seemed unimaginable. Days filled with routines, repeating the same patterns with small children, might sound mundane, but I’ve come to cherish them. These slow, repetitive days bring me a sense of peace and purpose I never thought I could feel.
One of my proudest accomplishments is how I’ve learned to manage my emotions, especially around my children. I’m far from perfect, but I’ve worked tirelessly to avoid taking my frustrations out on them. I’ve learned to pause, breathe, and offer the patience I was never shown. Most of the time, I succeed—and for me, that’s a monumental victory, the result of years of self-awareness and effort.
But here’s the heartbreaking part: I feel like I have no witness to this transformation. My husband doesn’t love me, respect me, or appreciate the person I’ve worked so hard to become. He doesn’t see my growth, my strength, or the strides I’ve made to be better. That realization cuts deeply. To go through so much, to become so much better, and to have no one truly notice or celebrate it feels tragic.
And yet, it’s not entirely true. My children are my witnesses. They see me, feel my efforts, and absorb the love I pour into them. They don’t yet have the words to express it, but I know they feel the difference I’m making. Their recognition will come, maybe years from now, but I believe it will.
Yesterday was one of those hard days that tested everything I’ve worked on. My daughter pushed her younger brother, and both my husband and I lost our temper. He took her into her room, threw her onto the bed, said some harsh words, and left. I understood his frustration—her actions hurt—but my heart broke seeing her scared and confused.
Later that afternoon, I found myself alone with her and decided to talk. I asked, “What made you so sad earlier?” When she struggled to answer, I gently guided her: “Was it me? Was it Daddy? Was it Peter?”
She replied: “Daddy.”
I asked, “What did Daddy do that upset you?”
“When he throws me on the bed, I get scared,” she said softly.
Her words hit me like a wave. I sympathized with her, validated her feelings, and promised to keep her safe. Then I asked, “Is there anything Mommy does that makes you feel scared or upset?”
Her response melted my heart: “No, you are doing really well, Mama.”
In that moment, I felt seen—not by my husband, but by my daughter. She is my witness. Even though she’s too young to fully grasp the depth of my feelings, she sees me. She feels the love, patience, and care I’m working so hard to give.
But the contrast between the recognition I receive from my children and the void I feel with my husband is devastating. He doesn’t love or respect the person I’ve become. Ironically, I know my past partners, who endured the worst version of me, would appreciate the person I am today. Back then, I was harder to love, and yet they loved me.
It’s lonely, this journey of growth with no partner to witness it. And yet, it’s not entirely true. My children are my witnesses. Their understanding will grow with time, and one day, they’ll fully grasp the sacrifices and love that shaped their childhood.
For now, I hold onto moments like these. My daughter’s words remind me that while I may feel invisible to some, I am not invisible to her. And that gives me hope.
One day, all the love and effort I’ve poured into this life will return to me. For now, I’ll keep going. I’ll keep growing. Because even if no one else recognizes it, I know my truth. I am a witness to my own transformation, and that is enough.
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