For a long time, I held onto my childhood memories as an anchor, a reminder of when I was "happy." But as I have come to learn, those memories were tainted with half-truths and illusions. They were the fuel that once kept my anger burning, a fire that protected me but also consumed me.
Losing my father forced me to confront something I had long avoided: I no longer want to be led by childhood memories and traumas. I no longer want to be defined by what happened to me, by the pain that shaped me. I want to be an adult—not just in age, but in responsibility.
That responsibility means owning my actions, my healing, and even the echoes of my upbringing. It means making peace with the past, not by erasing it but by integrating it into a new way of being. I still have much to learn, much to unlearn, and much to correct. But I am ready.
As I explore my family’s history, I see a pattern: generations of people who lacked self-love. The pain I carry is not just mine; it is inherited. And I refuse to pass it down any further. I choose to break that cycle because so much is at stake.
It feels good to put the swords down. To stop fighting battles that were never mine to begin with. To release anger that has outlived its purpose. This is not defeat—it is growth. It is stepping into a new consciousness, allowing myself to be reborn into love, for myself and those who came before me.
It will not be easy, but it will be worth it.
