For years, I believed the lies I was told, some spoken outright, others whispered in the tone of cold silences. Words that said you don’t belong here. Actions that reminded me that love had conditions. The sharp edges of rejection cut deep, and I carried those wounds like proof that I was unworthy of softness.
When you grow up without the mother who brought you into this world, you long for someone to fill that space. And when the one who steps into that role makes you feel smaller instead of seen, it changes you. Or at least, it tries to.
For a long time, I thought her actions defined me. If she didn’t embrace me, maybe I wasn’t worth embracing. If she didn’t celebrate me, maybe I didn’t deserve to be celebrated. If her words stung, maybe the pain was mine to own.
But here’s the truth I’m finally holding on to: I was created for more.
Not for her approval. Not for her validation. Not for the version of myself she tried to box me into. I was created for fullness, for joy, for dreams that stretch beyond the limits of anyone else’s expectations.
For most of my life, my wants, needs, and words were ignored. I spoke, but it felt like silence. I dreamed, but it felt like no one cared if those dreams ever came true. I understand now that I can’t wait for others to believe in me, especially those who never wanted me to succeed. Their resistance is not my reality. Their lack of belief cannot become my own.
Lately, I’ve been reframing my mind. Every time those old thoughts creep in; the ones shaped by her dismissive looks and careless comments, I stop and remind myself: That’s her story, not mine. Her inability to love me the way I needed does not mean I am unlovable. Her silence is not an indictment; it’s a reflection of her own walls.
And maybe that’s the hardest part to accept: sometimes people don’t give love because they never learned how to hold it themselves. I used to take her distance as proof that something was wrong with me. Now I see it for what it is, evidence of her own battles. I can have compassion without carrying the weight of her choices.
The most powerful thing I’ve learned? I get to rewrite the narrative.
I can choose thoughts that align with who I truly am, not who someone else projected onto me. When my mind wants to replay scenes of neglect, I replace them with affirmations of worth. When my heart wants to shrink back, I stretch it wider.
Because I was created for more than surviving someone else’s limitations.
I was created to thrive in my own liberation.
So today, I move with this truth: Her words don’t define me. My purpose does.
And every time doubt rises like a tide, I remind myself: I was created for more than what I was told I could be. I was created to be me—whole, worthy, and free.
