Softly Unseen

One thing I know now is that our parents are human. They were never the perfect statues we once imagined them to be.

If my life were to be shaped by my own voice it would sound like this:

My emotions are not too much. I feel deeply, and I love even deeper. My loyalty is rare. I have a strong conscience and although I’m not perfect I always try to do what’s right. When I don’t, I am haunted.

As a child, being passed around was never my fault. It didn’t reflect who I was. It reflected parents who were caught up in their own hurt. I was the one who carried the weight, but it was never mine to carry. My dad’s rejection was not about me. The rejection I felt was real, but it was not the truth of my worth.

I have walked through hard things…some from my choices, some from the choices of others. Even so, I did everything I could to keep my boys safe. I gave them all of me, and I would have given even more if it meant protecting them from pain. I have raised them with love and intention, doing my best to keep them from the hurt I experienced.

I fight for what matters, and I stand firm in my beliefs. My intensity is part of who I am, and it is also my strength. I don’t need to wear a mask of invincibility anymore. It is okay to need others. It is okay to ask for help.

I don’t have to earn love by performing.

I am already worthy of it.

I am a good friend. I care deeply, and the friendships l’ve held for over 30 years prove that.

My faith in God is steady and unshaken.

I love fiercely. I show up for the people I care about, and I serve them with joy.

And through it all, this remains true: my father’s rejection was never about me. I deserved a love that allowed me to be fully myself without fear and without condition. There is nothing a little girl could do to not deserve her Dad’s love and protection. I might not have gotten that but I did deserve it.

They say the squeaky wheel gets the oil. In our family, that’s always felt true. There were four of us growing up. Me, the oldest, then my sister, and two younger brothers. We were raised in the same house, yet each of us walked away with such different experiences of childhood.

For me, so much of it is tied to my brother Rick. His struggles with addiction began earlier than I realized at the time. None of us could see then what it would grow into. What I do know is that my mom would have given anything to save him. And she did. Really, we all did in our own ways.

My siblings Ali and Brett have always been firm with their boundaries, able to draw clear lines in black and white. Rick and I, though, never quite got that part right. My boundaries are strong everywhere else in my life, but with Rick, they have always softened.

From the time we were little, he and I shared a closeness that felt different from any other relationship in my life. Rick was deep like me. He felt things the way I did. Music touched him the way it touched me. He understood me, sometimes better than I understood myself. He was loyal, kind, and full of compassion. But he also knew exactly how to push my buttons. And he did that often. When addiction wasn’t clouding his life, he would give the shirt off his back or the last dollar in his pocket without hesitation.

But addiction has a way of stealing everything good. Over the years I’ve watched it strip pieces of him away, and my heart has broken more times than I can count. I’ve chased him down when he disappeared, begged him into treatment, slept in hospital rooms next to him, spent sleepless nights searching for him, sat through countless meetings, and pleaded with my mom to stop enabling him.

I think this is part of why everyone just expected me to be the strong one. 

Even when my own life was unraveling. Even when my marriage fell apart and I discovered things I never imagined could be true. Even then, I was supposed to carry the weight. I was holding it together for my kids , cheering at baseball games with one ear tuned to rehab calls, stretching money that wasn’t there, taking clients while finding rehabs for my husband in between. I was doing everything I could not to let my children feel the shift, even as I felt myself breaking inside. It seemed that nobody could ever show up for me, I could never let my guard down.

When I finally reached the point where I couldn’t hide it anymore, what I longed for most was comfort. But instead, my mom walked out of my house and told me I needed help. No shit, mom. She wasn’t wrong , but the way it was said cut deep.

That’s where so much of my hurt has lived. Why was it that Rick could cause so much pain, neglect his family, and make choices that hurt everyone but always have an excuse? Why was I, the one trying so hard to hold it all together, the one who could never seem to get it right in her eyes?

Over the years, I’ve wrestled with resentment. I’ve tried not to let it take root, but some of it has.

Lately, though, my focus has shifted. Over the past year and a half, I’ve been asking God to teach me how to live with more grace. To be more Christlike — gentler, kinder, more forgiving. I remind myself often that my brother didn’t choose to be an addict. He doesn’t need me to judge him; he needs me to love him, while also holding firm boundaries that protect my own heart.

Prayer has shown me how to step back without stepping away. To let go without abandoning who I want to be as his sister. And while it hasn’t erased the pain, it has softened it, and it has reminded me that loving him doesn’t have to mean losing myself.

Growing up, I wore the badge of oldest daughter with pride. Protecting my siblings wasn’t a duty , it was instinct.

I can still see my stepdad trying to force feed my youngest brother medicine, my fists clenched in rage, yelling at him to stop. As an adult, I understand my brother needed that medicine. But the way that man did anything ..heavy handed, controlling, and cruel was disgusting.

It didn’t matter if the threat came from our parents, friends, or the world outside. They were mine. Nobody loved them the way I did. Nobody would protect them the way I would. 

When my brothers were in high school, a fight broke out in front of our house. I was in platform sandals, purse in hand, and I jumped right in. Not that I could have done much damage but it stopped them. They weren’t going to hit a girl, and that was enough.

When my brother was lost in addiction, I went out one night to find him. I don’t remember how I tracked him down, but I do remember climbing through a second-floor window into a filthy apartment and dragging him out.

Nothing stood between me and their safety.

That role became my identity: dependable, loyal, capable. Strength was my identity , and I guarded it fiercely. If I was weak, who would they go to? Who would they have?

Everyone got so used to my strength that no one thought to check if I was okay. Growing up, I learned you had thirty seconds to cry, then you got up, figured out your next step, and kept going. I believed that if someone could depend on you, they would love you. That was my love language: dependability. I didn’t say “I love you” easily, but I could show up every time you needed me. That was safer than real vulnerability.

But strength became a mask. I wore it so long that I started to believe it myself. Inside, I was exhausted. I resented everyone who valued that “unbreakable” version of me, but I didn’t know how to need anyone. Needing someone felt like a burden. It still does.

My life taught me to brace for impact. I scanned every room, read every shift in energy. If I could sense it before it happened, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. If I pushed people away first, they couldn’t leave me.

But living that way left me empty.

Now I’m learning something new: I don’t have to be strong to be loved. It’s okay to need someone. It’s okay to take the armor off. It’s ok to embrace the soft person that I am.

My therapist mentioned developing a new role within my family. I don’t know what it will be or what it will look like but I know I don’t want it to be what it’s been. 

My therapist gave me a writing assignment this week: to explore how I see myself through my parents’ eyes, and how that’s shaped me. I’m not trying to write anything perfect. I’m just trying to be honest. I agreed to this because I miss writing, and because there are things I’m ready to stop hurting about.

This isn’t about my step-parents (unless I say so). This is about my mom and dad.

My Mom

When I think about my mom, I know she loved me with her whole heart. She was emotionally immature and didn’t trust many people, but her love for me was fierce and overwhelming. I think she saw me as something fragile, something that needed constant protection. And she believed only she could do that. She would go to extreme lengths to do what she thought was best for me. Even taking me from my dad. I don’t think there was any ill intent in it. Just fear. And love. I remember watching her take such good care of us, and my step dad who truthfully didn’t deserve anything she did for him. Somehow, she did it with such joy and intention. I never heard her complain. Every dinner she made, every load of laundry she folded, and every scratch she bandaged was all done with such love. That woman made being a wife and mom look like the most desirable job out there. I wanted to be just like her.

But even with all that love, I remember feeling like a burden. Especially when she had more kids. I felt like I took up too much space. Like I was too much.

It’s strange to say that, because I also had such a full, beautiful childhood with her. She gave us the kind of days most kids only dream of. I don’t want to erase that. Both things are true. I felt safe and loved and I felt unseen.

Looking back, I think I took on this strong role of keeping everyone emotionally in check. My sister was focused on the house; I was focused on the people.

My Dad

My dad carried so much anger toward my mom. He didn’t think she could be a good mother. He believed his way was better. I truly think he loved me and wanted to be the best dad he could. But eventually, he gave up.

When I stopped wanting to go over there, he didn’t ask why. He didn’t push. From what I could tell, he thought I was just off partying and he let me go. I think at times the hurt was too much so it was easier to ignore it. I think he was angry too.

That still stings. He didn’t try to get to the heart of it. He didn’t fight for me.

The Word That Keeps Coming Up

As I write this, one word keeps coming up: invisible.

That’s how I felt a lot of the time. Like I was there, but also… not. Like I could disappear and no one would really notice. Or maybe they would, but they’d be fine.

That feeling didn’t come from nowhere. I think it was just the ripple effect of everything going on around me. My parents’ hurt. Their choices. Their pain. I got swept up in all of that.

And maybe I internalized it in ways I didn’t even realize.

A therapist once asked me why I wore black so much. I told her I just liked the color and I believed that. But now that I’ve lost weight, I find myself wearing more color. Maybe I don’t feel the need to hide as much anymore. Maybe I didn’t realize I was hiding at all.

What It Taught Me About Being Seen

I’ve poured so much energy into my career. I’ve pushed and performed and accomplished, maybe because I thought if I could just be seen, I wouldn’t feel invisible anymore. Awards, success, recognition… all things I thought would finally make me feel real.

And in my relationships, I’m starting to see a pattern. I’ve chased emotionally unavailable men, hoping that this time, someone would choose me fully and finally make that part of me feel whole.

Saying that out loud makes me feel sick. But it’s honest.

In every relationship I’ve been in, I’ve had this constant fear that if I said how I really felt, they’d leave. That if things got hard, they’d walk away. So I didn’t speak up. I tiptoed. I swallowed my needs and told myself, It’s not worth causing problems. I had always had the dream of being a stay at home mom taking care of my family but the truth is I never felt worthy of that. I always felt that I had to out work and out perform everyone else to be valued. That helped my career but not the core woman of who I dreamt of becoming. I do think I have balanced motherhood and my career well though. When I was married I still managed to take good care of my husband and because caring for my family was what truly made me happy, I was ok balancing it all.

But the truth is, I’ve just been afraid. Afraid of being too much. Afraid of being left. Afraid of being invisible all over again.

It was the dreaded Friday. The Friday that I’d have to get in the car with my mom and drive to go visit my dad. It wasn’t my dad that I dreaded seeing, it was the way I felt when I was there. I was the poor, dirty little girl that didn’t fit in that fancy family. The girl from ‘yucky’ valley. My clothes weren’t nice enough, my feet were too big, and my mom was the devil.

My stepmom made sure to make that very clear. Never to hurt me, of course.

I was the poor little girl who was never taught how to properly wash dishes, I couldn’t create the proper lines in the carpet and who in the hell thought it would be ok to wear a long sleeved sweater with a pair of Jean shorts.

‘Oh, honey, that looks ridiculous. Go change! I won’t be seen with you in that!’

And the one line that never stopped coming:

“Did your mother teach you that?”

Every time I heard it, something cracked a little deeper. I started to wonder if maybe they were right. If the person who loved me most was somehow the one ruining me.

When I was a little girl, I had a pair of red cowgirl boots and a horse book I knew by heart.

Every page. Every picture. Especially the Appaloosa. I dreamed about that one the most.

I imagined myself riding the horse in my backyard because in my mind it was a big enough yard and I could most definitely take care of that horse by myself. I would sit and dream about that horse and what my life would look like taking care of it. We’d understand each other and it would be exactly like the movies! I don’t remember ever asking my mom and step dad for a horse. I don’t know if they even knew this was something I dreamt about. Somehow, my dad and stepmom knew. Or maybe it was just what every little girl wanted at my age. Either way, one day they came to me and said that if I would live with them full time they would get me any horse I wanted!

Leave my mom? My siblings? My best friend down the street?

Live full-time with the woman who never let me forget that I wasn’t enough? Not clean enough. Not classy enough. Not her enough.

To be an outcast full time instead of every other weekend? All of a sudden I didn’t want a horse anymore.

I wasn’t a daughter they wanted to love and spend more time with. I was an object to be won from the person they hated. Even as a little girl I knew that.

When I was five, we used to meet at a church parking lot to do the exchange…mom on one side, dad and my stepmom on the other. That lot became the handoff for my childhood.

If we’d been out for the day, maybe the mall or a restaurant, somewhere “nice”and I was wearing clothes from their house, the change had to happen before I could cross over. Like clockwork, I’d be stripped down in the backseat. Barrettes pulled out. Shirt, pants, even socks switched out for the clothes my mom had packed. The poor girl clothes.

They didn’t say it outright. They never had to. Her condescending voice echoed all of the thoughts she never tried to keep quiet.

There was no way I could show up in anything from their side of the line. Like if I stayed in their clothes, I might carry some of their world back with me. And that wasn’t allowed. My mom might benefit from that too much.

At that age, I didn’t really understand what I was feeling.

I just started to notice that things went more smoothly when I behaved a certain way.

When I was helpful. Quiet. Polite. Dressed nicely.

When I did things the “right” way.

Smiled when I was supposed to. Stayed out of the way.

It seemed like love came a little easier then.

I didn’t think of it as performing back then but looking back, I can see it.

I was learning, in small and quiet ways, that being “good” made everything feel safer.

More peaceful.

More like I was wanted.