For many years, I watched my mama be a submissive wife— even to men who weren't her husband. Somewhere along the way, I mistook that for love. I believed love meant silence. Submission. Sacrifice. I believed endurance was holy. So I learned to turn a blind eye to the very things that keep you bound... the things that steal your peace, rob your sleep, and leave you on your knees begging God for deliverance. The irony? The roads we spend our lives trying to avoid often become the highways we know best. We see the warning signs. We hear the sirens. Every instinct tells us to turn around... Yet we keep driving. Because pretending feels safer than confronting the truth. We settle for familiar dysfunction instead of unfamiliar freedom. Hear me clearly... At this big age, I've never been loved properly. I've never spoken those words out loud until recently. As I watch my mama slowly slip away, our conversations have changed. They're softer now. Lighter. But somehow they carry ...
We always know when something has shifted. When the vibe is off. When the connection has faded. When the chapter has ended. When the season has changed. Yet somehow, we become experts at prolonging the inevitable. We smile. We perform. We keep showing up. We put on the mask and try to pretend the pain away. Because healing asks something most of us were never taught to give. It asks for courage. It asks for honesty. It asks for vulnerability. It asks us to expose what we've spent years trying to hide. Many of us were raised to survive, not to heal. Our ancestors, often out of necessity, taught us loyalty through silent submission. We learned that family business stays in the family. Pain isn't discussed. Wounds aren't acknowledged. You keep moving. And I understand why. Silence was protection. But somewhere along the way, protection became a prison. The more faithfully you honor that code, the deeper you bury the pain. The shame. The disappointment. The rejection. The emb...