02/11/2026
I read that line and had to sit down. Had to let it sink in. Had to feel the grief of it, not just for me, but for my mother. For my grandmother. For every generation of women in my family who learned that the only way to handle their hurt is to hand it down.
My mother wasn't a monster. She was wounded. And wounded people wound people. Especially the ones they love. Especially the ones who can't leave.
I don't have kids yet. But I think about this a lot. About how the only way to stop the cycle is to do the thing none of them did: heal. Actually heal. Not just survive and call it strength. Not just push it down and pretend it's gone. But face it. Feel it. Let it be as ugly and painful as it needs to be. And then, slowly, with help, with time, let it go.
Because if I don't, I know what happens. I'll be standing in my own kitchen one day. Something small will go wrong. And I'll open my mouth and my mother's voice will come out. Or worse, my grandmother's. And some small person who loves me will learn the same lesson I learned: that love isn't safe. That mistakes are catastrophic. That you have to be perfect to be loved.
And I can't. I can't do that. I won't.
So I'm doing the work now. The uncomfortable, expensive, exhausting work of becoming someone who can hold their own pain without handing it to someone smaller.
Not because I'm better than my mother. Because I have something she didn't: the language for what happened to her. The resources to heal from it. The understanding that breaking the cycle takes intentional effort.
She did the best she could with what she had. I believe that. But I also get to choose differently. I get to be the generation that stops. That says: this ends with me.
The bullying. The unhealed rage. The inherited wounds we pass down like recipes.
It ends here.