Parenting the parent.
I used to think I had to earn my parent’s love.
Be more agreeable. Quieter. Less “sensitive”. More impressive. Less me.
It’s take me a long time, most of my life so far, to realize that it wasn’t about me at all.
That their absense, or their inconsistency, or their coldness…wasn’t a reflection of my worth. Just their own wounds showing up, over and over again, dressed as parenting.
Still, it hurt.
It still hurts sometimes.
There’s a particular kind of ache that comes with knowing the one who was supposed to protect you couldn’t even see you.
And an even stranger ache when you start to understand why.
I don’t know if I can say I’ve fully forgiven them. But I’ve stopped trying to get something from them they were never equipped to give.
And that feels like its own kind of freedom.
These days, I try to parent myself better. To not abandon myself in the ways I was once abandoned.
It’s slow work. But it’s honest.
And I think, in some quiet way, that’s forgiveness too.
-Anonymous
