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There’s a specific kind of damage that comes from being hurt by the people who were supposed to love you. Not strangers. Not the world....
When I look at this picture, I don’t just see two women smiling. I see...
When I look at this picture, I don’t just see me. I see the little...
Lately, something has been shifting. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Not in a “everything...
There’s a specific kind of damage that comes from being hurt by the people who were supposed to love you.
Not strangers.
Not the world.
But the ones closest to you.
The ones who were supposed to be safe.
Abuse doesn’t always look like what people expect. It’s not always loud, obvious, or easy to explain. Sometimes it’s layered in lies. Sometimes it’s hidden in manipulation. Sometimes it’s disguised as “love” so convincingly that you don’t even realize what’s happening until it’s already shaped you.
It’s being told one thing and shown another.
It’s being made to feel like you’re the problem.
It’s being hurt, then comforted by the same hands that caused the pain.
It’s confusion becoming your normal.
And when that happens young, when your brain is still learning what love is, what safety is, what you are. It doesn’t just hurt in the moment.
It builds you around it.
Your mind adapts in ways you didn’t choose.
You learn to read people carefully. Too carefully.
You learn to stay quiet to avoid conflict.
You learn to take blame just to keep the peace.
You learn that love can come with fear and that becomes something you carry.
You don’t grow up feeling safe.
You grow up feeling prepared.
Prepared for disappointment.
Prepared for lies.
Prepared for pain.
And the hardest part?
You still crave the very people who hurt you.
Because they were your “home,” even when that home didn’t feel safe.
That kind of contradiction does something deep to a person. It splits you in ways that are hard to explain. Part of you wants to run. Part of you wants to stay. Part of you knows the truth. Part of you still hopes for a different ending.
That’s what manipulation does.
That’s what repeated hurt does.
It doesn’t just break your trust in others—it makes you question yourself.
Your thoughts.
Your feelings.
Your reality.
But here’s the truth that took me a long time to understand:
Just because something shaped you… doesn’t mean it gets to define you.
Yes, what happened changed me.
It affected my mind.
It affected my body.
It affected the way I see love, trust, and even myself.
I carry things I didn’t ask for. Reactions I didn’t choose. Wounds that didn’t come from me.
But I’m still here.
After everything
the lies,
the manipulation,
the confusion,
the pain
I am still here.
Still breathing.
Still learning.
Still trying.
Still choosing to wake up and face another day.
And not just any day. A day I want to live.
That matters more than anything they did to me.
Because survival isn’t just about making it through.
It’s about deciding, at some point, that you deserve more than just surviving.
That you deserve peace.
You deserve honesty.
You deserve a life that doesn’t feel like something you have to endure.
And maybe I wasn’t given that in the beginning.
But I’m building it now.
Piece by piece.
Day by day.
Choice by choice.
I am not what they did to me.
I am what I chose to become after.
When I look at this picture, I don’t just see two women smiling.
I see two little girls who survived something neither of us fully understood at the time.
What makes it harder to explain is this:
We didn’t know he was hurting both of us.
Not really.
We each thought we were the strong one.
We each thought we were the protector.
We each thought, “If I just hold it together, she’ll be okay.”
There’s something heartbreakingly beautiful about that.
Two children trying to carry weight that was never theirs.
I remember moments when I would look at her and think,
“I’ll take it. I can handle it. Just don’t let it touch her.”
And I know now she was thinking the same thing about me.
We didn’t talk about it then.
We didn’t have language for it.
We didn’t even fully understand what was happening.
But we felt it.
The tension.
The silence.
The unspoken knowing.
We grew up believing we were shielding each other.
And maybe, in some small ways, we were.
Not because we could stop it.
But because we never let the other feel completely alone.
There’s a kind of survival that doesn’t look loud.
It looks like passing glances across a room.
It looks like sleeping in the same bed because the dark felt heavier that night.
It looks like, “I’m fine,” when you’re not because you don’t want her to worry.
We were children trying to be armor for each other.
Now, when I see this photo, I don’t just see adulthood.
I see proof that we made it.
Not untouched.
Not unchanged.
But still here.
Still choosing each other.
Still standing side by side. Only now, we know the truth.
We don’t have to protect each other from it anymore.
We get to heal together instead.
When I look at this picture, I don’t just see me.
I see the little girl I used to be.
The one who didn’t understand what was happening.
The one who learned to be quiet.
The one who thought survival meant shrinking.
The one who counted breaths just to get through moments no child should have to endure.
When I look at this version of myself now, leaning against a tree, standing in the light I don’t feel fearless.
I feel protective.
Not just of my future.
Not just of the life I’m building.
But of her.
The eight-year-old who didn’t have anyone step in.
The teenager who was told she was “too sensitive.”
The young woman who confused chaos with love because it was familiar.
I don’t hate the version of me who tolerated too much.
She was surviving.
But I am not her anymore.
I am the woman who would stand between her and anything that tried to harm her.
I am the voice that says, “No.”
I am the boundary.
I am the exit.
I am the safety.
Healing isn’t becoming emotionless.
Healing is feeling everything and choosing differently anyway.
I still have nightmares.
I still get triggered.
I still shake sometimes.
But now when I feel fear, I don’t abandon myself.
I hold her.
I tell her:
“You’re safe now.”
“I’ve got you.”
“No one is allowed to hurt you anymore.”
There is something sacred about realizing you have grown into the very person you once prayed would show up.
I am not the little girl waiting to be saved.
I am the woman who saves her.
And I will never let someone treat her the way I once allowed.
Not again.
-Samantha ❤️
Lately, something has been shifting.
Not in a loud, dramatic way.
Not in a “everything is fixed” kind of way.
But in small moments.
I’ve started noticing the way sunlight hits the trees again.
The quiet feeling of morning before the world wakes up.
The way my body softens when I feel safe.
For a long time, I was surviving.
Then I was numbing.
Then I was fighting.
And now… I’m feeling.
And feeling is complicated.
There are days where I genuinely feel peace.
Where I see beauty in small things and think,
“I’m going to be okay.”
And then there are moments where it all rushes back.
A memory.
A courtroom.
A tone in someone’s voice.
A flash of the past that tightens my chest before I even understand why.
Old versions of me would have run from it.
I would have distracted myself.
Smiled.
Pretended.
Pushed it down.
Told myself I was being dramatic.
But now, when it comes, I try something different.
I sit.
Even if it’s uncomfortable.
Even if my body feels shaky.
Even if tears come.
I let the wave move through me.
And then I get back up.
That’s the part people don’t talk about.
Healing isn’t about never feeling triggered again.
It’s about not abandoning yourself when you are.
It’s about recognizing,
“This is a memory, not my present.”
“This is my nervous system trying to protect me.”
“I am safe right now.”
And instead of spiraling, I breathe.
Instead of running, I ground.
Instead of shaming myself, I offer compassion.
Some days it’s messy.
Some days I still cry more than I want to.
Some days I feel strong.
Some days I feel raw.
Healing is not linear.
It doesn’t move in a straight line upward.
It moves in waves.
Forward.
Back a little.
Forward again.
But each time I sit with it instead of escaping it, I realize something.
I’m not crazy.
I’m processing.
And if you’re in that space right now
where you’re starting to feel again
where beauty is returning in small pieces
but the past still knocks on the door sometimes
You’re not regressing.
You’re integrating.
That’s actually growth.
I’m writing my book and this blog for one reason:
Because I remember what it felt like to think I was the only one reacting this way.
To think I was too emotional.
Too sensitive.
Too affected.
I want you to know you’re not alone in this.
You’re not broken because healing isn’t smooth.
You’re not unstable because your body still reacts.
You’re not weak because you cry.
You’re healing.
And sometimes healing looks like sitting in the middle of the storm for a moment…
and realizing you don’t have to run anymore.
Then standing up, brushing yourself off, and continuing forward.
One breath at a time.
-Samantha ❤️