I so needed this! I’m the eldest daughter as well and shuddered at being called mean, but ur also right- we had to be. Forgiving ourselves for who we HAD to be to survive is something I work on daily. the final comment from your brother shattered my heart bc that’s something I’ll just never hear. Ty for sharing!
Sis, thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. Forgiving ourselves for being who we had to be in so spot on, and honestly, deeply painful because we were just children. May you find peace in forgiveness as well. May it come to you in the most liberating way. ❤️
Your story made me think about the layers I wrapped myself in to protect myself... and all the hard work and years it took to peel them away and embody who I really am.
How well I understand! The peeling is a process in and of itself. Thank you so much for responding to my story. Please feel free to share it with others. ❤️
It unearthed the girl within me and the woman I am fiercely becoming. Rebekah captured the intense struggle many of us endure—the little Black girl forced to mature too soon, to forge an unyielding exterior, wearing strength like impenetrable armor. "Mean" became the crucial language for some of us, a dialect of survival, a shield to feel secure and acknowledged. It was a means to endure.
Yet, what she articulates with such poignant tenderness is the raw truth beneath our hardened shells: We were terrified. We were masking our vulnerabilities. We were desperately trying. Trying to feed our siblings. Trying to keep our households intact. Trying to stay whole when everything around us was fracturing.
The line, "She was our mother when our mother couldn’t be"—my God. That transcends memory; it is a sacred altar.
To anyone reading this who feels haunted by the steely façade they had to adopt: Yes, you were mean. But you were also formidable. You were the shield. You were the contingency. And now, you can embrace softness. You can exhale. You can heal without the relentless hustle.
We are permitted to recount the full narrative. Not just the scars, but the dedication. Not just the fury, but the rationale behind it.
DreamGIRLIE, thank you, Rebekah, for illuminating what it means to cradle memory with mercy. To reveal the truth and remain tender. To rediscover joy without denying the pain that preceded it.
This was not merely a story. It was a powerful balm.
I so needed this! I’m the eldest daughter as well and shuddered at being called mean, but ur also right- we had to be. Forgiving ourselves for who we HAD to be to survive is something I work on daily. the final comment from your brother shattered my heart bc that’s something I’ll just never hear. Ty for sharing!
Sis, thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. Forgiving ourselves for being who we had to be in so spot on, and honestly, deeply painful because we were just children. May you find peace in forgiveness as well. May it come to you in the most liberating way. ❤️
Your story made me think about the layers I wrapped myself in to protect myself... and all the hard work and years it took to peel them away and embody who I really am.
How well I understand! The peeling is a process in and of itself. Thank you so much for responding to my story. Please feel free to share it with others. ❤️
Oh, Honeyeeeeeee… YESD!
It unearthed the girl within me and the woman I am fiercely becoming. Rebekah captured the intense struggle many of us endure—the little Black girl forced to mature too soon, to forge an unyielding exterior, wearing strength like impenetrable armor. "Mean" became the crucial language for some of us, a dialect of survival, a shield to feel secure and acknowledged. It was a means to endure.
Yet, what she articulates with such poignant tenderness is the raw truth beneath our hardened shells: We were terrified. We were masking our vulnerabilities. We were desperately trying. Trying to feed our siblings. Trying to keep our households intact. Trying to stay whole when everything around us was fracturing.
The line, "She was our mother when our mother couldn’t be"—my God. That transcends memory; it is a sacred altar.
To anyone reading this who feels haunted by the steely façade they had to adopt: Yes, you were mean. But you were also formidable. You were the shield. You were the contingency. And now, you can embrace softness. You can exhale. You can heal without the relentless hustle.
We are permitted to recount the full narrative. Not just the scars, but the dedication. Not just the fury, but the rationale behind it.
DreamGIRLIE, thank you, Rebekah, for illuminating what it means to cradle memory with mercy. To reveal the truth and remain tender. To rediscover joy without denying the pain that preceded it.
This was not merely a story. It was a powerful balm.