Discover top trending posts from our blog.
Thereâs 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 donât just see two women smiling. I see...
When I look at this picture, I donât just see me. I see the little...
Lately, something has been shifting. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Not in a âeverything...
Thereâs 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 doesnât always look like what people expect. Itâs not always loud, obvious, or easy to explain. Sometimes itâs layered in lies. Sometimes itâs hidden in manipulation. Sometimes itâs disguised as âloveâ so convincingly that you donât even realize whatâs happening until itâs already shaped you.
Itâs being told one thing and shown another.
Itâs being made to feel like youâre the problem.
Itâs being hurt, then comforted by the same hands that caused the pain.
Itâs 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 doesnât just hurt in the moment.
It builds you around it.
Your mind adapts in ways you didnât 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 donât 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 âhome,â even when that home didnât 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.
Thatâs what manipulation does.
Thatâs what repeated hurt does.
It doesnât just break your trust in othersâit makes you question yourself.
Your thoughts.
Your feelings.
Your reality.
But hereâs the truth that took me a long time to understand:
Just because something shaped you⌠doesnât 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 didnât ask for. Reactions I didnât choose. Wounds that didnât come from me.
But Iâm 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 isnât just about making it through.
Itâs about deciding, at some point, that you deserve more than just surviving.
That you deserve peace.
You deserve honesty.
You deserve a life that doesnât feel like something you have to endure.
And maybe I wasnât given that in the beginning.
But Iâm 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 donât 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 didnât 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, âIf I just hold it together, sheâll be okay.â
Thereâs 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,
âIâll take it. I can handle it. Just donât let it touch her.â
And I know now she was thinking the same thing about me.
We didnât talk about it then.
We didnât have language for it.
We didnât 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.
Thereâs a kind of survival that doesnât 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, âIâm fine,â when youâre not because you donât want her to worry.
We were children trying to be armor for each other.
Now, when I see this photo, I donât 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 donât have to protect each other from it anymore.
We get to heal together instead.
When I look at this picture, I donât just see me.
I see the little girl I used to be.
The one who didnât 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 donât feel fearless.
I feel protective.
Not just of my future.
Not just of the life Iâm building.
But of her.
The eight-year-old who didnât have anyone step in.
The teenager who was told she was âtoo sensitive.â
The young woman who confused chaos with love because it was familiar.
I donât 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, âNo.â
I am the boundary.
I am the exit.
I am the safety.
Healing isnât 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 donât abandon myself.
I hold her.
I tell her:
âYouâre safe now.â
âIâve got you.â
âNo one is allowed to hurt you anymore.â
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 â¤ď¸
Lately, something has been shifting.
Not in a loud, dramatic way.
Not in a âeverything is fixedâ kind of way.
But in small moments.
Iâve 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⌠Iâm feeling.
And feeling is complicated.
There are days where I genuinely feel peace.
Where I see beauty in small things and think,
âIâm going to be okay.â
And then there are moments where it all rushes back.
A memory.
A courtroom.
A tone in someoneâs 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 itâs uncomfortable.
Even if my body feels shaky.
Even if tears come.
I let the wave move through me.
And then I get back up.
Thatâs the part people donât talk about.
Healing isnât about never feeling triggered again.
Itâs about not abandoning yourself when you are.
Itâs about recognizing,
âThis is a memory, not my present.â
âThis is my nervous system trying to protect me.â
âI am safe right now.â
And instead of spiraling, I breathe.
Instead of running, I ground.
Instead of shaming myself, I offer compassion.
Some days itâs 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 doesnât 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.
Iâm not crazy.
Iâm processing.
And if youâre in that space right now
where youâre starting to feel again
where beauty is returning in small pieces
but the past still knocks on the door sometimes
Youâre not regressing.
Youâre integrating.
Thatâs actually growth.
Iâm 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 youâre not alone in this.
Youâre not broken because healing isnât smooth.
Youâre not unstable because your body still reacts.
Youâre not weak because you cry.
Youâre healing.
And sometimes healing looks like sitting in the middle of the storm for a momentâŚ
and realizing you donât have to run anymore.
Then standing up, brushing yourself off, and continuing forward.
One breath at a time.
-Samantha â¤ď¸