I go into detail in my book, The Weight of Silence: Emerging from the Shadows of Family Addiction, about my experience with addiction in my family, but I’m not going to do that here. I will share some relevant details and excerpts to help you connect the dots, but this space is purposely meant to be different than my book. When I initially published this piece as a blog post, my book had yet to be published. This was the first time I talked about my experience so publicly.

In The Weight of Silence, I talk about how the beast that is addiction became the elephant in the room with my family. It was this massive open wound wreaking havoc on our family. It also became the thing that was off limits to openly acknowledge within my family—much less in public. As a result, the elephant in the room became the albatross around my neck for most of my life.

I knew that my mom and my sister had a chemical dependency to methamphetamine (meth). Alcohol was an issue for both of them as well, but I guess you could say it was the lesser of the two evils. I witnessed them both use alcohol in the place of a healthier coping mechanism to take the edge off when stressed, as well as for fun.

Meth, on the other hand, was the substance that helped them both to function on a daily basis. The worst times for me were not actually when they were high on meth, but when they were coming down from it, or if they were temporarily forced to function without it. When they were high, they were usually happy, upbeat and productive. When they were without it, they were moody, short-tempered and often slept excessively, among other things.

My sister is the one who first told me about my mom’s drug use and helped me understand and connect the behaviors related to her use of meth. At age 12, when my parents were going through a horrific divorce, the only bright spot for me was getting the chance to spend more time with my big sister. However, that meant I was often present when my sister and her friends would drink, party, and snort copious amounts of meth. I also witnessed what my sister was like when she was coming down off the drug, and then watched the cycle continue repeatedly.

There was no internet at the time for me to search for the signs of meth use and abuse; I knew the signs because my sister taught me the signs.

My sister and I never stopped openly talking about my mom’s addiction, but at some point, she stopped admitting to me that she was still using. We tried to talk to mom about her addiction once when I was in high school, but that was a complete disaster. Her reaction was so traumatic that I was never able to have an honest conversation with her about it again.

At the time of that failed intervention, I was 17—the same age my sister had been when she started drinking heavily and using meth. That was also when she first realized my mom was doing the same.

I was no longer that naïve 12-year-old, desperate for time and attention from my big sister. I was old enough to start seeing things more clearly—recognizing patterns I had learned from watching her and her friends and connecting the dots back to both her and my mom.

The difference was, now my sister wanted me to believe she was no longer using—but I knew better.

When I first wrote this—and even in my book—I described their attempts to make me question what I was seeing as gaslighting. By definition it was, but from where I sit today, I don’t take it as personally as I did then. After years of healing and growth, I’m able to see it from a different perspective.

Without minimizing the impact it had on me, I’m able to view it more clearly now.

Now, what I see is two people deep in the throes of their struggle with addiction, unable to admit to themselves—much less anyone else—that they have a problem.

For over 30 years of my life, I was constantly questioning my reality. There were multiple times I started to question if they were both still using. My mom was able to appear to be highly functional to the outside world, even holding the same job for over 25 years before retiring. I would get my hopes up that things were getting better—that maybe they had found a way to quit without going to treatment—but that wasn’t the case.

The biggest impact addiction had on my family was the erosion of trust over time. That was the silent killer, chipping away at every happy memory I had with my family and loosening every tie that bound us together.

The addiction, conflict, trauma, and emotional upheaval that went on in my family was the root cause of me learning to silence my voice. I stopped asking for what I needed and stopped sharing when I was hurt. Being vulnerable with my family became hazardous for me, which often led to me becoming overly vulnerable in other areas of my life.

My friendships and intimate relationships were impacted, and most importantly, the relationship with myself became practically non-existent.

At age 12—with hormones raging through my body and puberty looming over me—my focus shifted away from myself and toward everyone else. I was so desperate to be loved and accepted that I put all my energy into being what I thought others wanted me to be instead. When that inevitably failed, it reinforced a belief I carried for years—that who I was at my core was never going to be enough.

I became a people-pleaser, and I was good at it. Perfectionism and control also went hand in hand with that. I wasn’t aware of these patterns until later in life—in fact, in certain environments, especially at work, they were often praised.

On the surface, I had a strong work ethic. I took pride in what I did. I was capable, accountable, and seen as an asset.

Underneath, I was a sad, scared, and deeply lonely little girl who just wanted to be loved and accepted.

What most people couldn’t see was the shame cyclone forming inside of me—a constant stream of thoughts running in the background: I’m not good enough unless I’m doing more. If I don’t show people how much I care all the time, they’ll leave. If I’m not exactly what they need me to be, I won’t be enough.

The patterns I developed to cope with the chaos in my life became the mask I wore for years. They started as a way to survive, but over time, they became part of the problem.

They helped keep my mind distracted from my invasive thoughts, but when the silence came and the busyness stopped, the shame monster would always re-emerge.

I couldn’t control what was happening in my life as an adolescent, so control of everything else in my life became essential for my survival. I needed everything to be in order, neat, clean, and organized. If they weren’t, I would feel that familiar anxiety building up inside of me, and I could easily become overwhelmed by it. I would often say that if my house was a mess, my life was a mess.

How I felt after cleaning and organizing my house and finally sitting down to relax in it was like taking a hit of my drug of choice. I would sink into my couch, take a deep breath and exhale as I felt the relief of the anxiety leaving my body, and turning into a feeling of utter bliss.

I still experience that feeling of bliss even now when I complete the task of cleaning my house or organizing something that felt chaotic or overwhelming.

The difference is, now I don’t feel the need to judge myself if I don’t have the time or energy to get it all done in that moment.

Or anytime soon.

That is the biggest shift.

Still being able to relax in my home and feel regulated even when everything isn’t perfect.

I’ve learned how to manage my anxiety by doing small things that make a big difference.

Most notably, not punishing myself with a heaping portion of guilt or shame if tackling the Should-Do list isn’t my top priority.

Shame, guilt, and anxiety were also an issue when it came to my interpersonal relationships—personal or professional. One simple interaction with someone could easily keep me spinning for hours, days, or longer—replaying what I could have said or done differently, or better.

My people-pleasing made this so much more excruciating because I craved praise and validation. It felt so good when I got it that I would spend all my energy finding ways to get more of it.

It was like being stuck in some sort of toxic, torturous feedback loop I couldn’t escape.

A different kind of addiction, but an addiction just the same.

Even though I knew that about myself, I would sometimes cause the chaos without realizing it. The people-pleaser in me had a hard time saying no. I would often take on too much, and become overwhelmed, which led to not having time or energy to keep things in order—physically and emotionally.

It was an exhausting cycle that would often lead to me feeling depressed or short-tempered. At first, I was quick to take the blame for everything, but over time my judgment became skewed. My codependency would kick into overdrive, and I would look around for someone to blame for the mess.

Anyone but me.

I was a good person—

a kind, thoughtful, caring person who always made it a priority to help others.

This couldn’t be my fault.

I didn’t realize then that constantly saying yes to everything and everyone else, meant I was also constantly saying no to myself.

And that’s where the bitterness and resentment reared its ugly head.

Subtly and quietly at first.

Until it began clouding the lens through which I viewed every interaction.

On the outside I was blaming others, but on the inside, all of it was being sucked into the cyclone of shame, adding to its power over me.

A therapist once told me that all codependent people are people-pleasers, but not all people-pleasers are codependent. I was both.

Being loved and accepted was my addiction. I learned how to morph into whoever I needed to be in order to keep the high going.

That didn’t mean that how I loved or cared for others wasn’t genuine, it was quite the opposite. How well I loved and cared for others became how I defined myself. If something went wrong in a friendship or relationship, I always looked to myself first to see what I had done wrong.

I saw this as a positive trait for many years—showing strong accountability and responsibility—it may have started that way, until it morphed into something unhealthy.

I took everything personal and made things about me that had nothing to do with me. As miserable as I would feel twisting myself into knots about it, the thought of approaching someone to test my assumptions was far worse.

I had learned the hard way from my family what happens when you try to address an issue, and feeling like that again, for me, was a close second behind jumping into a pool of acid.

Because of what happened with my family, I had developed a profound fear of conflict. In my family, it wasn’t just the topic of addiction that was off-limits. Anytime there was an argument or conflict of any kind, it never got resolved. Time would pass, and then we would all resume daily life without ever discussing it again.

With my mom, this usually came in the form of her cooking a favorite meal or bringing home my favorite treats from the store. This became one of the ways I learned to turn to food for comfort, rather than adapting other ways of coping.

Regardless of what happened with people who hurt me in some way, it was extremely difficult for me to refuse an olive branch when one was extended. The thought of turning away someone showing any vulnerability and hurting their feelings was too much for me to take.

As a result, I stayed too long in toxic relationships and gave people the benefit of the doubt who no longer deserved it.

Having an open and honest conversation about even the smallest conflict was far too emotionally risky for me. I couldn’t take being blamed or shamed for one more thing, so I did everything to stop that from happening. Confrontation and conflict were agonizing for me, so in my mind, there was no option for me to say or do the wrong thing. Ever.

Instead, I tried to make myself indispensable to others and make them feel good when I was around. I thought if I could take care of the people I loved and be a caring and thoughtful person all the time, maybe it would be enough to make them want to stay.

I was trapped in a deeply subconscious belief that in order to receive love, I always had to give it first. In relationships I was often very needy and clingy. I never used to feel emotionally safe enough to be honest about how I felt, especially if I was experiencing intense emotions.

The people who were supposed to love me and protect me no matter what, emotionally abandoned me at a time when our family was literally being broken apart.

That feeling never went away.

Between my mom and sister’s addiction and my dad’s physical and emotional distance, I felt I was forced to face it all on my own. So that’s what I did.

I always made sure to have a job once I was old enough to work and learned to take care of myself.

Yet another trait that many would see as positive.

And it was—until it wasn’t.

I had learned not to ask for help because when I did, it came with a whole heap of conflict and controversy—especially between my parents, both during and after the divorce. Like many of my unhealthy patterns, this one served me well until it stopped being helpful and became harmful.

This is how codependency crept up on me. It started innocently enough with me being a helpful, hardworking, capable person. Over time, it morphed into an indignation I felt for believing I was always doing everything for everyone else, while no one did anything for me.

I had been hiding what was going on with my family for so long, that I had normalized so many of the unhealthy behaviors and situations I experienced. The longer I kept my family’s secret, the less aware I became of how deeply it was affecting me.

So, I did what I always did—I pushed through it.

When my dad passed away nine months after a diagnosis of an aggressive cancer, I pushed through it.

Whatever came my way, I kept pushing through instead of allowing myself to process and feel what was building inside of me.

After my dad passed, I felt adrift. Untethered.

I spent most of my life trying to make decisions about my education and career path that I thought would make him proud of me. Now that he wasn’t here, I needed to find the path that felt right for me.

It took me about four years after he died to begin to find my way back to myself.

I found the courage to apply to graduate school for Organization Development—something even I didn’t fully understand at the time—but I somehow just knew it was right for me. The Universe obviously agreed, because I was accepted.

I never planned on attending grad school—that was one of those things I set aside and filed under Not Good Enough/Not Smart Enough. But there I was, doing one of the things I never thought I could do. And it felt good.

The more I did things I thought I could never do, the more I chipped away at those nagging insecurities I’d felt since I was a child.

They were still there, just quieter.

Once I put myself through grad school, I wanted to do something positive in the world. I knew I was put on this earth with a purpose, and even though I knew helping others was part of it, I felt confused and overwhelmed about where and how to begin.

So, I kept it simple and focused my energy on work that felt fulfilling to me. At that time, I felt a strong pull toward working with youth. Helping young people who were going through the most difficult times of their lives was something I felt strongly about for obvious reasons.

I began working at a nonprofit mental health agency as a Family Support Counselor. I worked with youth exhibiting severe behavioral issues putting them at risk from being removed from their homes. The youth were my clients, but I would work with the whole family.

All new hires went through a concentrated week of training at the main office before we started our jobs at different sites. It was an emotionally intense week of training that included a great deal of personal reflection, as well. It was kind of a mental health boot camp.

We had done so much of that type of work in grad school that I was confident I knew what to expect in that regard. I was learning so much and meeting so many wonderful people. It was all pretty great—until we got to the Mandated Reporter training.

I have provided the excerpt I wrote in my book about the experience:

Mandated Reporters are trained and mandated by law to report suspected abuse or neglect relating to children, elders or dependent adults. I had never taken that training before, but I was somewhat aware of what it would entail and what would be required of me.

What I didn’t expect was the profound impact it would have on me, personally.

I listened as they went through all the ways that a child could be neglected or abused. When they got to the last of the six types of neglect, which was emotional neglect, it hit home. I remember sitting there and feeling like I had been sucker punched in the gut as the trainer highlighted the examples. There it was, “Parents may struggle to meet children’s emotional needs due to a variety of reasons, such as depression, or drug and alcohol abuse.”

During this training we had been told some horrible stories of children being left for days without food who were forced to eat out of the garbage. That was definitely not my life. There were also categories consisting of mild, moderate and severe neglect. But the more I listened, something in me clicked, and I said to myself, “I think I was neglected as a child.”

It was a shock to my system. Having someone name it so clearly and seeing it up on the PowerPoint presentation right in front of me, brought forth a harsh reality I had never considered before that moment.

I started to check out of what was happening in the room. I suddenly felt as if I were thrust backwards through a long, dark tunnel. The voice of the trainer started to fade into the background, and I could feel my face get hot as I tried to process what I had just learned.

No therapist I had seen had ever named it so clearly for me. It was the first time I felt truly validated and seen for what I had experienced. At the same time, I felt devastated, ashamed, confused, and desperate to escape that room.

We always had the option to leave the room if we felt triggered. I sat there as long as I could, trying not to call unwanted attention to myself, until I felt safe enough to step outside a few minutes before the break.

My head was spinning. My identity was so tied to being “the capable one” who was always helping others. Hearing those words brought home a reality I wasn’t prepared to face. I always downplayed what I experienced because I was never physically abused or, in my mind, severely neglected.

As emotionally exhausting as it was to always feel like I was walking on eggshells with my mom’s ever-changing emotions, I still told myself that others suffered far worse than I did. It made me feel like a weak person to even complain about it because I had only been hurt emotionally.

After years of working in child welfare and mental health I gained a deep understanding of trauma, including that emotional trauma can be just as damaging as physical trauma.

Working in that field was fulfilling, but it was also stressful, overwhelming, and chaotic—all things I had grown accustomed to growing up in my family.

It was also a way for me to begin to peel back the layers of my family’s dysfunction and begin to process it through my newly adapted trauma-informed lens.

I had worked in the field for about three years when my mom passed away even more suddenly than my dad. I decided I was ready to find a new therapist. I found a woman who specialized in addiction and family systems. She helped me to identify and begin to unpack some of the things I hadn’t realized were not normal in my family life, which also helped me make sense of what happened to me.

Working with her also helped me begin to realize the depth of my codependency and understand how toxic it had become for me to keep ignoring the elephant in the room.

After my mom died, it was just my sister, my niece, and me left behind to deal with all the secrets and shame that had shrouded my family for decades.

With my mom no longer here, I told myself I was no longer going to pretend that addiction wasn’t a problem in our family. I had kept the secret from my niece for all those years, believing I was protecting her.

Once I finally understood how damaging that silence had been for me, I knew I didn’t want the same for her.

What I came to realize was that all those years I thought I was protecting her, I was actually sending her into a fight without arming her with the knowledge she needed to survive it.

So, I made the extremely difficult decision to tell her the truth.

I knew it would change everything. I feared it might blow up what was left of my family.

And it did.

My niece remained in my life, but my relationship with my sister did not.

Losing my mom was far more complex than I expected. There were parts of me that thought I might feel some relief—no longer having to walk on eggshells or carry the weight of what went unspoken—but that wasn’t the case.

What I felt instead was a depth of grief I wasn’t prepared for.

I have a better understanding now of the trauma my mom experienced when she was younger. That, combined with a history of addiction and abuse in her family, added to the darkness that drove her toward addiction.

Learning more about her life after she died—and feeling her with me since she transitioned—has been a big part of what helped me heal from the wounds of my childhood.

It wasn’t until much later in life, after years of healing and growth, that I began to understand any of that.

That understanding has helped me release the anger and bitterness and rediscover the love.

I know now that my mom and sister weren’t choosing this path—they were living in a level of pain I couldn’t fully understand for much of my life.

I had to learn that I’m not able to control how, when, or if the people I love who struggle with addiction get help. That is a choice only they can make.

As simple as that may sound, it took me a long time to come to terms with it. No matter what I did or how much of myself I gave, the struggle was never mine to control.

I spent so much of my life trying to help and fix my family, and it bled into all of my relationships. Once I realized that the only person I had the power to change and heal was myself, everything began to shift.

I also had to learn not to take their behavior personally, and to understand that so much of it came from a need to numb pain that was too overwhelming to face.

The patterns I developed to cope didn’t disappear—but they don’t hold the same power over me anymore. I can see them now. I understand where they come from, and I have tools to support myself when they resurface.

They’re still a part of me—but I’m no longer at their mercy.

I have a sense of peace in my life now that I hadn’t experienced since I was a little girl, and I don’t take that for granted.

For so long, I carried the weight of what went unspoken.

Now, I no longer need to.

Next in the series:

Chapter 3 – Lonely Soul

A poem written in 1991 and published in my high school newspaper—the first piece of my writing ever published. More than three decades later, I’ll revisit it through the lens of who I am today.

As always, thank you for reading.

Take care,

Melinda

If my writing resonates with you, please consider subscribing. Simply liking, sharing, or joining the conversation in the comments means more than you know, and I’d love to connect with you. Paid subscriptions are always appreciated—but never expected.

Currently I post bi-weekly during the first and third weeks of each month.

Thank you for being here. 💜

Hello All,

I wanted to send out a note letting you all know that I won’t be doing my regular first week of the month newsletter article this month. May was a really difficult month for my family, and I’m feeling emotionally drained. We had two significant losses in the month of May, and because I write from my lived experience, I’m not at a place where I’m able to tap into my emotions the way I usually do when I write.

We have felt very protective and kept what happened very private, but we are starting to feel like we can begin to share a bit of it outside our close circle. On Friday, May 15, my husband’s mom passed away after a diagnosis given back in March. Knowing it was coming didn’t lessen the impact of the loss. Losing your mom is just a different kind of loss.

We were still feeling the impact of that loss when just over a week later, our beloved dog, Maddy, had a sudden and shocking decline in her health, and we made the excruciating decision to put her down. We don’t have kids—she has always been our baby.

We are heartbroken and grieving, but we are working through it together, like we always do.

I’m starting a new community workshop on Fridays in June, starting this week called The Pause. Leading up to that I will be taking my own pause for some much-needed self-care.

I have already prepared the next chapter of my new series Reflections from This Version of Me and that will be posted in the third week of June. Next up in that series:

Chapter 2 - The Elephant & the Albatross

Recognizing Patterns and Connecting the Dots

Thank you for your patience and understanding as I navigate through my grief. Grief and loss are a part of life, and I’m taking the time I need to honor those I’ve lost by feeling and healing my way through it. This too shall pass, but for now it’s ever-present.

I’m grateful you are here. As always, thank you for reading. 💜

Take care,

Melinda

Photo by Me

Reflections From This Version of Me

Chapter 1 - I’m Here to Be Seen

From Holding Space to Breaking Through

I was more than halfway through my Master Life Coach certification when we were asked to take part in an exercise that, at first, seemed simple.

We were placed into small groups and rotated through three roles: speaker, responder, and observer. Each round lasted just three and a half minutes. The observer’s role was simply to watch without engaging. The speaker’s role was to say, “I’m here to be seen.” The responder would reply, “I see you.”

That was it.

By this point in the program, we had already done deep coaching work and had many meaningful interactions, so I expected this to be another valuable learning experience.

What I didn’t expect was how personal it would become.

Just days before this training began, I had finished the first full draft of my book—a memoir about growing up in a family struggling with addiction. Not feeling seen—feeling invisible, like I didn’t matter—was one of its central themes.

Although the certification was held on Zoom, I had already been struck by how deeply people expressed themselves and how well we connected in that space.

At the same time, I was coming into this experience from a very specific place.

Writing my book had been a very therapeutic and cathartic experience for me. There were many times I cried as I wrote, as a way of releasing what I had been holding onto for most of my life.

Finishing the first full draft of my book was an accomplishment I wasn’t sure I would ever achieve. It had been quite a journey from where it started to where it ended. I still had a great deal of work to do before I was ready to publish, but I was feeling emotionally strong, proud, and excited about my book as I began the next level of my life coach certification.

I had done a great deal of personal growth, but in the process of writing my book I was able to go deeper than I ever had. It was the first time I was truly honest with myself about the impact of things that happened to me and around me that I had never allowed myself to fully explore.

I had cracked myself open, rooted around inside, and allowed myself to process and feel every bit of what I found.

So, I went into the activity thinking I had tended to my deepest wounds, and they were well on their way to healing. I thought the work I had done had erased the pain of those deeply held patterns and beliefs. I believed those deep childhood wounds had finally scabbed over and that the bleeding was done. Check off that box and move on, right?

I was looking forward to holding space for others to feel seen—not realizing that my pattern of putting other people’s needs above my own was distracting me from what was about to happen.

“Holding space” is an empathic act—creating a container where someone can express whatever they need without judgment, interruption, or your own feelings getting in the way.

It’s something I learned to name in grad school, but in many ways, it was something I had been doing my whole life—just without understanding the importance of boundaries, self-protection, and not letting my “helper-fixer” tendencies take over.

It hadn’t occurred to me that after birthing a book about my life—laying myself and all my insecurities bare—I might still be feeling raw and exposed. Even though no one but me had read it, pouring my heart out onto the page had unknowingly left me in a vulnerable place.

The other major theme of my book—the suffocating feeling of not being good enough—was still lingering as I struggled with what came next. And in a way, keeping my manuscript to myself was another form of hiding…another way of not being fully seen.

As the “I’m Here to Be Seen” activity began, we were all put into our designated virtual breakout rooms. This time I was with a new group of people I had yet to work with on any other exercises. I sat in my role as witness—watching but saying nothing as others were at the center of attention. The witnesses also had their microphones and cameras turned off, so it felt as if the speaker and responder were the only two in the space.

My turn came and I was paired with a woman that I had noticed in the previous large group discussion and felt drawn to for some reason. She later told me she had felt the same, but before this exercise we had never spoken.

Since we were in a virtual space, the speaker was instructed to look at the screen, while the responder looked directly into the camera, creating the feeling of eye contact.

My partner offered to be the speaker first, and I did my part as the responder. I soon realized the reason we were paired together. It was one of those moments I felt an unexplained deep connection and sense of safety with another person. It’s rare, but magical when it happens.

I quickly realized that three and a half minutes of only saying two short phrases felt much longer than I expected. The role of the responder was not just to respond, but to hold space for the speaker to let whatever came up for them come to the surface. I could see that she was surprised and a little uncomfortable with the tears that broke through with her emotion, but she got through it.

We both took deep breaths and centered ourselves before we switched roles.

It was now my turn to step into the speaker role, and after the first time the words, “I’M HERE TO BE SEEN” came out of my mouth I felt a lifetime of emotion swell inside my body.

My stomach tightened and I felt everything rise to my chest, then my throat, then my head. I felt a burst of heat in my face and ears, and my eyes filled with tears as the feelings built inside of me like a volcano determined to erupt.

For a split second, I thought about trying to hold it together in front of everyone. But instead, I released my breath and allowed it to pour out of me.

At first, it felt as if the scab had been ripped off an old wound and I would once again bleed uncontrollably.

But then something surprising happened, and in that moment, I realized just how much I still needed to release.

So, I let go, and I let myself feel EVERYTHING.

I no longer cared who was watching. And for once, I wasn’t worried about how my intense emotions were going to make everyone else feel.

It also helped that I couldn’t see anyone else’s face but my partner’s—her presence allowed me to feel safe enough to truly be vulnerable.

I allowed my protective walls to fall away, fully surrendered to my emotions, and finally let go.

I not only cried—I wailed.

I could feel all the toxic emotions that I had held onto throughout my life spilling out of me. Each time I repeated those words, I sobbed continuously as deep sorrow, pain, and grief broke free from inside of me.

It was the kind of cry that I have rarely allowed myself to experience in the presence of others.

After about the third time of repeating the phrase, I could feel a physical relief in my body. Each time I uttered those words, I began to feel stronger.

Like I had finally acknowledged a deep need I’d been ignoring my whole life—and I would no longer be silenced by the shackles of shame.

That sense of relief was no surprise to me. As difficult as it can be, I always feel better when I allow myself to feel what I need to feel.

I had spent much of my life restricting the immensity of my feelings to lessen the discomfort of those who couldn’t handle them.

I hadn’t realized the impact that had on me until that moment.

This time, I didn’t hold back—and it felt miraculous.

Exhausting and difficult, but also liberating.

I came out of that session feeling so much lighter. My partner had created such a safe space for me, and I knew that was no accident. She later told me she felt the same, and I knew she felt a similar connection. I believed that the Universe had paired us together for a reason. A moment in time, where we held space for each other and walked away forever changed and eternally grateful. At least I knew I was.

I didn’t get put in any other groups with her for the rest of the certification, and we never spoke again after that.

I don’t even remember her name.

I don’t believe I was meant to.

The exercise was so impactful for me that I walked away from it thinking that “I’m Here to be Seen” might even be a good title for my book. I ended up choosing a very different name for my book, The Weight of Silence: Emerging from the Shadows of Family Addiction, but it ended up being the name I chose for my blog. That is where some of the stories in this series come from, but I’m revisiting them with a different lens and from a different place.

Although my book wasn’t published until April of 2025, I started my blog in January of 2023—it was the first time I truly put my writing out into the world.

Sharing what I wrote in my book with the world felt like that slow ride up to the peak of a roller coaster—one click at a time, then the seemingly endless pause before the inevitable DROP!

Even prior to writing my book, my biggest concern had always been who might get hurt if I speak my truth? It’s near impossible to tell your own story without including others as well.

My fear of hurting someone I care about by expressing my true feelings or needs began with my family and spilled over into everything else.

As a means of emotional survival, I stopped speaking up about what the slow and agonizing disintegration of my family was doing to me.

Silencing my voice was causing more harm than I realized—to myself and to my relationships.

Writing and publishing the blog was my way of dipping my toe in, to get a sense of how the DROP of putting my story out into the world might feel with slightly less at stake.

Being vulnerable with people was something that had come naturally to me my whole life, but this was different. This was the first time I publicly shared the deeply private truth about my family—the first time I felt brave enough to share my truth, without letting fear or shame get in the way.

I’m looking forward to seeing how much I’ve grown and healed as I sort through the different chapters of my life. As I begin to reflect on these pieces, I can already see how much has changed—both around me and within me.

I’ve come to believe that growth doesn’t happen without reflection, and reflection is where integration begins. I’m curious to see what new insights reveal themselves as I revisit these pieces from where I stand today.

My story may be different from yours, but I hope you find something here that makes you feel a little less alone. Maybe you see yourself in it. Or maybe it helps you better understand someone you love.

So, once again, I’m here to be seen—and I’m here to create a space for others to feel the same without fear of judgment or shame.

I hope you’ll come along with me.

Next in the series:

Chapter 2 - The Elephant & the Albatross

Recognizing Patterns and Connecting the Dots

As always, thank you for reading.

Take care,

Melinda

If my writing resonates with you, please consider subscribing. Simply liking, sharing, or joining the conversation in the comments means more than you know, and I’d love to connect with you. Paid subscriptions are always appreciated—but never expected.

Starting in May 2026, I’ll be posting bi-weekly during the first and third weeks of each month.

Thank you for being here. 💜

Photo by Me

Revisiting My Words, From Who I Am Today

In this new series, I’ll be exploring some of my earlier writing through the lens of who I am today. Rather than simply editing what I wrote then, I’m allowing myself to reflect, expand, and see what new insights have emerged over time.

Some of these pieces began as older blog posts—some even resurfacing with entirely new names as I rediscovered them. Others may include cut pieces from my first book that found a home here, along with poems I’ve kept hidden away for decades. Revisiting these moments and experiencing my words from this version of me also inspired me to write a few entirely new pieces, as the process began unlocking memories and insights I hadn’t fully understood until now.

As I revisit these stories from different parts of my life, I’m noticing not only how much I’ve changed, but I’m also seeing the pieces of me that were trying to break through all along.

If you’ve been with me since the beginning, I’m grateful you’re here again. And if you’re new—welcome—I’m really glad you found your way here.

Next week, we begin with:

Chapter 1 — I’m Here to be Seen

From Holding Space to Breaking Through

New chapters in this series will be shared during the third week of each month, alongside my regular posts throughout the month.

As always, thank you for reading.

Take care,

Melinda 💜 🦋

One of my favorite photos of me in a moment of joy and silliness—feeling like my true self.
Photo by Andora Salcido

Lately I’ve been thinking more about how many different versions of me exist at the same time. Although much of my life was riddled with insecurities, I’ve always had a sense of pride that I’m someone who holds both curiosity and contradictions as a staple in my worldview. I don’t see things as black and white or us vs. them—with a few exceptions, I deeply embrace the idea of both/and. Sometimes I think I drive my husband nuts when I say, “I can see both sides”.

That doesn’t mean I can’t clearly see when one side is in the wrong, it just means that right or wrong, I can often identify patterns and situations that led up to that point. I’m a social scientist, fascinated by human behavior. Understanding why something occurred and tracing it back to the root is just how my brain works.

Maybe that came from my lived experiences, growing up in a home and in situations where my nervous system was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Which may or may not have led to me being an empath, (which came first, I’m still on the fence about—a discussion for another time), and therefore someone who learned to become hyper-vigilant and attuned to the people around her as a means of emotional survival.

I’ve said it before, I spent a great deal of my life learning to shape-shift and people-please in order to feel loved and accepted by others. I wasn’t walking around trying to fake everyone out, making them believe I was someone I wasn’t. Who I was at the core was still there, I just learned to soften her or shrink her when necessary.

After decades of doing that, as I healed, I began to feel safe enough to begin unearthing and sorting through those pieces of me.

After working in child welfare and mental health for many years and learning to see things through a trauma-informed lens, I was also able to soften my gaze when looking within. That allowed me to not only have compassion for others, but also for myself.

Now, I’m choosing to look at all the pieces of me from a strength-based perspective rather than a source of shame. I’m not advocating for anyone to go down the path of people-pleasing and shape-shifting—those are the habits and patterns I continue to work very hard to shift. I’m just choosing now to focus on the good stuff that came out of it, rather than dwelling on the bad.

I guess you could say I “Marie Kondoed” my sense of self. Cleaning out the clutter of my false self in an effort to find my authentic self. Part of my healing process was sorting out what was mine, what I adapted or adopted as a trauma response, what truly sparked joy in me—and most importantly what didn’t.

As a true change agent does, I started with the low-hanging fruit. I focused on what was easy to toss into the burn pile. The things I tolerated or dealt with that were clearly draining my energy and not adding anything to my life.

I love to purge and de-clutter. Although ridding my life of things like jobs, habits, or activities that were no longer serving me wasn’t easy, it wasn’t where I struggled the most. Identifying and creating distance from the people connected to those things was the hardest part for me. Moving away from everything that is familiar and starting over definitely helped.

Space and perspective did wonders for me and enabled me to wipe the slate clean.

The opportunity to view myself, and everything else, with fresh eyes as I began to discover this version of me.

The version of me that feels the truest.

The one that has healed so much and knows there’s always more to do.

The me that can still feel that pull towards perfectionism and control but pushes back.

The Melinda that doesn’t need everyone to like her.

The woman who can still hold space for others without losing herself.

Embracing My Curiosities and Contradictions

I was reflecting on my long drive to work one day about the intersectionality of all the pieces of me, and some of the contradictions made me giggle. I also realized in that moment how much I like not being just one thing. I like having layers that don’t make sense to anyone else but feel like me to me.

I no longer look for ways to fit in—I have no desire to anymore.

Now I choose to show up as me and let the rest fall into place.

I’m a little witchy and woo-woo.

I meditate daily to stay grounded.

I love crystals and follow the phases of the moon.

I love to spread love and light.

I’m also a total true crime nerd.

The social scientist in me is drawn toward the complexities of the human psyche—

sometimes even the dark and disturbing.

I can binge watch a true crime docuseries in a day.

I also know I probably need to watch something happy before bed.

I protect my peace.

I’m intentional about regulating my nervous system.

When it comes to music, I love what used to be referred to as soft rock but is now referred to as yacht rock. This is my go-to soul-soothing music.

I also love 80’s and 90’s hip-hop music.

Sometimes the only way to pull myself out of a funk is to blast it in my house and dance it out!

And some days I need to let my mouth settle into a snarl as I bob and shake my head to a Rage Against the Machine song or rock out to Led Zeppelin.

My Liked Songs playlist on Spotify is extremely eclectic, and I like it like that.

Even my astrological profile holds some pretty intense contradictions.

I’m a Cancer Sun, Scorpio Rising, and Aries Moon.

I’m literally fire and water.

I’ve definitely put out my own fire a few times in my life!

Even my name vs. my appearance causes people to do a double take.

I was born Melinda Stewart.

A redhead at birth that turned towhead blonde as a toddler.

Complete with pale skin and blue eyes.

For the last 20 plus years, I’ve been Melinda Velasquez, my married name.

Now, both my first and last name lead people to assume I’m Latina.

What I teach in my part-time work seems a bit contradictory at first glance.

I didn’t quite understand the draw at first.

Teaching computers for beginners. What?

At first, it definitely felt like a departure from my passion.

I’m deeply committed to my work in the healing and growth space.

And I also like teaching computers for beginners.

At the core it’s about helping people feel safe enough to lean into trying something they don’t feel confident about.

My focus hasn’t changed—it’s just delivered in different packaging.

I help people who feel stuck, uncertain, or behind find a sense of safety and support as they learn new skills and build confidence.

I provide the container, the tools, and guidance as they do the work.

It’s not about me.

It’s about them learning to step into their own power.

And it’s a beautiful thing to witness.

Coming Home to Myself

I like that there’s more to me than what people see on the surface.

I’m proud of my personal layers and complexities—especially now that I know they are in fact the pieces of me I’ve chosen to keep.

A true reflection of the woman I am today.

While still honoring and connecting me to all phases of my life.

Before, during, and after the trauma and the drama.

When I really look at it, none of these pieces of me are in conflict.

They all point back to the same thing.

Learning to show up fully as myself—and helping others do the same.

This is the work I’ve been leaning into more and more lately—exploring the layers of who I am, and what it looks like to show up as our full selves—and helping others do the same.

I’ll be sharing more of this in a new series I’m launching later this month, and I’m really looking forward to taking that deeper dive.

I’ll also be revisiting pieces of my own story and work through the lens of who I am now—sharing things I’ve written, explored, and held onto over the years that feel ready to be seen.

As always, thank you for reading.

Take care,

Melinda 💜 🦋

If my writing resonates with you, please consider subscribing. Simply liking, sharing, or joining the conversation in the comments means more than you know, and I’d love to connect with you. Paid subscriptions are always appreciated—but never expected.

Starting in May 2026, I’ll be posting bi-weekly during the first and third week of each month.

Thank you for being here. 💜

Artwork by Tsukiko Kiyomidzu

I was reminded recently of a story I initially had in my book that was eventually cut, and it felt like the right time to revisit it. When I was in grad school, we had a cohort of about 16 people who would be together in this transformational social experiment for the entirety of the two-year program. A few I had gotten to know in the prerequisite class some of us had to take, but most of them I had never met. On the first night of class, I definitely felt a pull toward a few people, but what stood out the most was a strong feeling I had to avoid getting too close to one particular person, I’ll call him Ivan.

He didn’t say or do anything threatening. In fact, I found him to be interesting, a bit quirky, and funny. My instinct to avoid him wasn’t due to any type of offense or red flag. It was the sense I got immediately from him that he could see right through the facades people put up and wasn’t afraid to call it like he saw it. My more specific sense was that there was no fooling him. It was only a matter of time before he would see through my mask and reveal something that I was unaware of—and wasn’t sure I was ready to hear.

As the first semester continued, our cohort developed a strong bond. It’s hard not to when you spend two nights a week together plus one full Saturday a month learning in a way most of us had never experienced before. We would spend hours together in class learning and engaging with each other, then find ourselves processing all of it in hours-long parking lot conversations. The experiential nature of its design was intense, but that’s what made it so transformative.

I had gotten to know Ivan a bit and continued to find him to be insightful and funny. Just as my intuition warned, he was one who tended to challenge others in the group. I think his smaller work group even had some personality clashes that led to some intense group processing sessions. Overall, that “scary” feeling I had about him seemed to subside.

As we reached the end of the first year, we all came together in circle, and I believe it was a time to give each other feedback. I can’t recall if the goal was for each of us to address everyone individually, but the feedback that Ivan had for me flipped my world upside down.

He was thoughtful and kind in his delivery, but he was direct in the way I didn’t realize I needed him to be. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but I’ll never forget these six words, “You come across as a victim…”

I do remember that he said some other things that assured me he believed I was more than that, but the victim part is what sent shockwaves through my nervous system. My intuition was right; he would be the one to speak truth to me in a way that left me feeling both enlightened and exposed.

It was the truth bomb I needed to snap me out of the mindset I had been stuck in without even realizing it. I thought I had everyone fooled—everyone including myself. That I was a strong, capable, resilient woman who had experienced some hard things, but I was not a victim, I was a survivor. In many ways I was a survivor, but I was also stuck in victim mode in a way I was not able to see.

Could everyone see this? Had I been walking around pretending to be strong and capable while everyone around me saw me as a sad display of the whiny walking wounded? The pain I thought I was so good at hiding had never been hidden at all, it was always right there, obvious to everyone except me.

It wasn’t like I was walking around all day every day saying, poor me, my life has been so hard—quite the opposite. I was working overtime to prove to everyone—including myself—that I was fine. Regardless of what happened with my family and in my life, I wasn’t going to let that stop me from thriving. I was not going to let the family history of addiction, neglect, or abuse stop me from building the life that I wanted.

I was a survivor, dammit! And I was prepared to white knuckle the hell out of that way of living until I had reached my goals and achieved my dreams.

I thought that an awareness of my family issues and an acknowledgment of the risks those issues posed to my wellbeing was enough to allow me to leave it in the past and keep moving forward. But it wasn’t in the past. It was hidden in every reaction I had and every decision I made.

What I thought of myself, what parts of me I allowed people to see and what parts I tried to keep hidden. The types of people I dated. Where I chose to live. Where I went to college. Who my friends were. How I interacted or didn’t with my family. What types of environments made me feel safe, and what felt unsafe to me—unable to identify a logical reason why in either case.

Receiving Ivan’s feedback created a seismic shift in how I saw myself, and how I believed others saw me. Before that, I thought I was fooling everyone. After that, I realized I had also been fooling myself.

When it happened, I had already begun unraveling parts of my life, trying to understand how they had shaped me. But that day revealed a major blind spot I had been unable or unwilling to notice that had become a significant barrier to my growth and healing.

Self-awareness is multi-dimensional. At the time, I thought I understood myself well—until I began peeling back the layers and going deeper. What I see now is that awareness without compassion and grace often turns into self-criticism rather than acceptance.

What I didn’t fully understand at the time was what was lurking beneath all of that self-awareness.

It wasn’t just insight or reflection… it was unresolved anger.

Anger at what I had experienced.
Anger at what I didn’t receive.
Anger at the people who were supposed to protect me and didn’t.

And buried deep within that anger was something even harder to admit—resentment.

Not just toward the people who had hurt me, but toward the reality that I had to carry the impact of it.

That resentment didn’t always show up in obvious ways.
I wasn’t walking around looking for ways to get revenge… but if I’m honest, there were moments where I felt justified in how I showed up with certain people.

A kind of quiet “I deserve this” or “they deserve this” energy that I was more aware of than I wanted to admit.

Especially with my mom.

I write more about this in The Weight of Silence, especially during the time I was planning my wedding. Even though that was a difficult time for my mom for other reasons, I was blinded by resentment toward her, which clouded my ability to empathize with her during that time.

And looking back now, I can see that while I believed I had moved on from my past, parts of me were still reacting from it.

Not always loudly… but consistently.

I used to try to convey a false sense of self, the one I thought I needed to show in order to be loved and accepted. I wanted to be seen as a good person who does the right thing and genuinely cares for others. But in doing that, I forgot how to—or maybe never learned how to care for myself.

The more I denied and suppressed my true feelings, the stronger the anger and resentment became, and the further I drifted from myself. It happened so subtly, over time, until I couldn’t even decipher what was authentically me and what was the version of me I created as a means of coping. Eventually, even if you’re good at pretending, the tentacles of your truth will find a way to slither out, revealing all that you thought was hidden.

I wrote about this in my last piece, Choosing Yourself, Even When It’s Uncomfortable, the idea that consciously or unconsciously, people can detect when someone isn’t being authentic. Some realize it and can detect it immediately, others may not understand it, but they can sense something is off.

Then came Ivan with his truth bomb that woke me up to how I was showing up in the world. Not that his opinion held more weight than others in my life—in fact, it was more impactful because it didn’t. I could hear it from him in a way I might not have been able to from someone closer to me, without the history between us shaping how it landed.

We were cohort mates who occasionally went out to lunch in a group. He wasn’t a close personal friend in my life whose opinion I held in high regard. But, he was an objective observer standing just outside my close circle of friends in our cohort, and I knew that not much made it past him.

What he said and the way he said it hit me hard, but in the way I needed it to. It didn’t sting the way it might’ve if it came from someone close to me at that time.

If I had been given that feedback at the beginning of my first year of grad school rather than the end, I can say with certainty that it wouldn’t have had the same impact. I might’ve even dismissed it completely thinking to myself, Who does this guy think he is?

I don’t remember much else from the day those six words landed on me, but it marked a turning point for me. Not only in how I saw myself, but in how much I feared finding out how others saw me. I couldn’t emotionally withstand hearing anyone—especially someone I loved and respected—say anything even slightly negative about me.

I still had work to do around caring what people thought about me, but this was different. I didn’t get defensive. I didn’t try to explain it away. I could receive it—because on some level, I knew it was true.

Those six words went straight to the core of what I had been running and hiding from since I was 12 years old. I worked so hard to not appear weak or helpless ever again that the very act of stuffing all those feelings down just caused them to leak out in other ways. It was like some form of emotional whack-a-mole.

Even though I wasn’t consciously aware at the time that I was stuck in Victimville, on some level I knew I was protecting something. That’s why someone like Ivan felt like a threat—he had the ability to expose what I was trying to keep hidden. I had tried so hard to lock away the sensitive and vulnerable Melinda that wasn’t brave enough to stand up to her bullies in junior high—not understanding then that what felt like my Achilles heel was actually my superpower.

One of my professors in grad school used to say that feedback is a gift, and that’s what this felt like. Not easy—but necessary. It was the reflection I didn’t see coming—and the one I couldn’t ignore.

As always, thank you for reading.

Take care,

Melinda

If my writing resonates with you, please consider subscribing. Simply liking, sharing, or joining the conversation in the comments means more than you know, and I’d love to connect with you. Paid subscriptions are always appreciated—but never expected.

Starting in May 2026, I’ll be posting bi-weekly during the first and third week of each month.

Thank you for being here. 💜

Image by John Hain from Pixabay, color edited by me in Canva

About a year ago, I wrote about my tendency to people-please—how it was rooted in a need to feel safe and accepted. What I can see more clearly now are the times when my strategy of being helpful, capable, and accommodating in an effort to create connection actually had the opposite effect.

It was explicit with some people—certain people it became painfully clear that they just didn’t like me or want to be around me. Sometimes, even those people I would still try to win over by adjusting my approach, usually without success. The more nuanced rejection was more difficult to detect, but I could always sense it. That feeling that no matter what I did, some people would still not choose me.

Not being chosen became my kryptonite. I used to do everything in my power to avoid that outcome. What I didn’t realize then was that the harder I tried to feel that sense of belonging with another person, the more distance it created between us.

At one point, I made a major life change that created distance between me and everything familiar—not just physically, but emotionally too. I needed space to start seeing myself more clearly. Making that decision was one of the most disorienting and challenging parts of my healing—and also the most necessary.

For most of my life, being the one who showed up, fixed things, and held everything together was part of how I defined myself. Letting go of that—even a little—has felt destabilizing at times. But it’s also made space for me to show up more honestly, without trying to earn my place.

Looking back, I can see that in those moments of more subtle rejection, there was something underneath it all that people could likely sense—even if they couldn’t name it. That quiet, ever-present fear of not being accepted was always there, just below the surface.

There’s a feeling we sometimes get with people that’s hard to explain—like something is just a little off, even if nothing obvious is wrong. I used to take that feeling personally, like it was something I needed to fix. I’m learning to trust that not every connection is meant to click—and that it doesn’t have to mean anything about my worth.

Now, when I find myself in situations where I’m not chosen, I no longer try to change that. Learning not to chase something that isn’t meant for me was something that took time to develop, and I’m still working on it. I’ve been in situations fairly recently that brought up the old version of me—trying to fix, prove, and earn my place. Most of the time, I catch it. Sometimes I don’t. The difference? Not falling into a shame spiral for not catching it sooner.

At first, accepting that some people just didn’t like me felt like swallowing glass, but over time, it got easier. As I leaned deeper into self-love and acceptance, I became more aware of which connections felt aligned—and which didn’t.

I no longer take it personally when someone isn’t drawn to me, personally or professionally. I’ve also learned to trust my own instincts when I don’t feel drawn to someone else.

Giving myself permission to not pursue every connection has made it easier to extend that same grace to others.

Lately, life has been bringing up a lot all at once. Things have felt heavy, like an unrelenting fog of confusion and despair, at times for myself as well as people I care about. Right on cue, I felt the helper and fixer version of me wake up, jump up on a chair while raising her hand anxiously exclaiming, Ooh, ooh! Pick Me! Pick Me! I know exactly how to make this better! And at first in that moment of stress and grief, I let her take the lead.

At first glance, what she suggested seemed like the right thing to do, the helpful and supportive thing to do. The more I sat with it, the more I came to realize it was likely not the best decision after all—but it was the decision I felt everyone would expect me to make. It was also the decision that through the lens of my people-pleasing was the only option that would be acceptable to myself and everyone else.

That fear of judgment—being seen as an uncaring person for not showing up the way I believed people expected me to—almost made me ignore what I knew was true. Choosing something different was actually better not just for me, but for everyone else. Listening to my intuition and choosing myself in this way allowed me to be more present and helpful than if I had given in to my inner people-pleaser.

Choosing myself doesn’t always look calm or confident. It is often that anxious feeling trying to push through the heaviness. Sometimes it looks like stepping back, saying no, not seeking approval, or simply not chasing after connection that doesn’t feel right—especially when everything around me feels uncertain.

Maybe it was never just about being chosen.
Maybe it was about wanting to feel accepted—without having to work so hard for it.

And I’m starting to see that the only way to experience that kind of acceptance is to actually show up as myself.

Even when it’s uncomfortable.
Even when it feels uncertain.
Even when it means not everyone will understand.

Here’s to leaning into the discomfort that comes with growth and change.

As always, thank you for reading.

Take care,

Melinda

If my writing resonates with you, please consider subscribing. Simply liking, sharing, or joining the conversation in the comments means more than you know, and I’d love to connect with you. Paid subscriptions are always appreciated—but never expected.

Starting in May 2026, I’ll be posting bi-weekly during the first and third week of each month.

Thank you for being here. 💜

Image by John Hain from Pixabay

I’ve been listening to Monica Lewinsky’s podcast, Reclaiming, for a while now. The premise of her show centers on one-on-one intimate conversations about how people have reclaimed, or are currently reclaiming, something that was lost or stolen from them. Being at the center of an international political scandal at the age of 22 has given her a great deal of insight when it comes to finding ways to reclaim different aspects of herself and her life.

Since I started teaching at the community college two days a week, I have about a 90-minute round-trip commute both days. I’ve been reclaiming my time in a way by finding different podcasts I enjoy, listening to audiobooks and some days just singing and dancing in my car to boost my energy before spending the day teaching. I love having the time to let the words of a book, or a podcast wash over me and sometimes provide inspiration for my own creativity.

One moment that inspired this newsletter came from an episode where one of Monica’s guests shared how journaling helps her identify the root of an emotional response she’s having. Monica followed up by talking about a tool her trauma psychiatrist shared with her, which is “being present enough to recognize which version of me is here? Which version of me just felt that?”

Those words resonated deeply with me for so many reasons. The first reference it brought up was a well-known healing modality referred to as inner child work. In the last few years, I’ve noticed how much more prevalent the conversations are around healing our inner child. I remember the first time I was prompted to talk to my inner child, and to comfort her and even hug her and tell her how much she is loved. It felt a little weird at first, but the further I dove into healing, the more it made complete sense.

“Inner child work helps us get to the core wounding—instead of putting a Band-Aid over the pain and hoping it gets better.” ~Robert Jackman

Throughout my life, I had become an expert at being seemingly high functioning on the outside, while suffering in silence on the inside. I learned to master the art of just pushing through, while putting up a brave front and appearing capable, responsible, and accountable to the external world. Being hit with trauma, loss, grief, shame, guilt, and seemingly relentless emotional pain, but telling myself there was no time for that. I just needed to pick myself up and keep moving forward. And that’s just what I did.

I was able to get by doing that for a long time. From the outside, it might have appeared that I was thriving, and I spent a great deal of energy trying to make it appear that I was. Then one day, my inner child showed up in the middle of my life and proceeded to throw a huge tantrum, causing serious disruption in every aspect of my carefully curated world.

I refer to it in the introduction of my book, The Weight of Silence, as a “crisis of confidence”. Something occurred in my life that had cracked open one of my deepest wounds, though at first, I had no idea what exactly was happening. I couldn’t see my inner child, and I knew that I was the one in that moment who couldn’t stop crying—I also knew something much deeper was occurring.

Channeling my inner child in that moment on my 46^th birthday, I felt like I was having some kind of out-of-body experience. Nothing in my life at that moment seemed to warrant such an intense response, but it was enough to make me pause and get curious. I’m now certain it wasn’t my adult self who was unable to stop the relentless flow of tears that day—it was my inner child—and she had finally hit her limit.

She wouldn’t stop crying and wailing until I finally decided to sit down next to her and allowed her to rest her head in my lap. I made the choice to sit with her and comfort her for as long as it took for her to return to calm. I imagined myself rubbing her back and stroking her hair the way my mom did when I was a little girl. I let her know I was ready to listen and finally allowed her to tell me what she needed me to hear.

She was so exhausted, but not just from her most recent emotional explosion. She had been crying out to me for decades, sending me messages that had gone unnoticed. She was the voice I learned to silence as early as age nine, when painful patterns of addiction in my family began to surface. When I reached age twelve and my parents’ marriage was falling apart, my mom’s addiction escalated and I was bullied for most of my eighth-grade year—I told her to sit down, shut up and not do anything that could make things worse than they already were.

Little Minna — as I now call the version of me from childhood — was forced into solitude and silence, while Melinda simply tried to survive. While Melinda was trying to show how helpful, strong and resilient she was, Little Minna was hidden away, left all alone in the darkness. Every traumatic and painful experience Melinda had was thrown in the room where Little Minna was placed. Scared and alone, Little Minna began to weave an intricate and tangled web of wounds to keep herself from enduring more harm. She spent years strategically placing emotional landmines that would act as a fortress of protection to warn her of danger approaching.

We all have an inner child. They are the parts of us tasked with holding the hard stuff that we set aside in order to get on with our lives. We keep those parts of ourselves tucked away, wishing and hoping that they won’t escape, but they always do.

Sometimes they poke their head out of hiding and appear in the form of you experiencing a sudden burst of impulsivity, or the need to do something fun or silly. They may show up as stubbornness in a relationship, or a strong act of defiance at work, or with family or friends. Have you ever had one of those moments where you recognize that you are having a disproportionate emotional reaction to something or someone, but you don’t know why? That is most likely your inner child showing up and saying, “Hello! Pay attention to me—to this! A wound has just been poked!”

The wound that chased me the longest was the need for love and belonging. I had always thought that being the odd girl out during adolescence was the root of that, until I wrote, The Weight of Silence, and realized it started with my family. It was easier for me to blame adolescent girls just being mean than it was for me to trace those feelings back to my own family. It didn’t come down to one moment, rather a compilation of situations and circumstances. The remnants of that wound ran deep. It kept me stuck in the victim role, chasing love and acceptance from others for a very long time.

Healing meant I had to learn to be present enough to recognize it when it reemerged. Developing this mindfulness of my emotional reactions and being able to identify their core wound has been the most impactful part of my own healing. Emotional self-awareness, in my opinion, is the key to emotional regulation.

The reappearance of old wounds I thought I had already dealt with has been one of the most challenging and frustrating parts of my journey. Just when I thought I conquered something—I slayed that proverbial dragon—only for it to show up in a different scenario luring me back to an emotional reaction once again. As a person who likes to complete something, check it off my list and move on to the next thing—I was surprised at how many times those deep wounds floated back to the surface! At first it felt like a setback—even worse, a failure.

I would say to myself, Really?! This again?! I had to learn to reframe those moments as important milestones too, even if I felt myself caught up in a temporary shame spiral over it. I started to notice my ability to identify the emotions bubbling up and connect the dots back to that pesky wound. Each time I did, I was able to release it and recover from it a little quicker and easier than the last time it revealed itself. I still experience feelings of being triggered when it reappears, but how much I’m emotionally impacted by that trigger has lessened over time.

There are times in our lives when we feel more fragile, and the idea of opening that door to see what has been hidden is just too much. That’s okay. You will know when you’re ready. And you are the ONLY one who can decide when the time is right for you.

I can relate to the thought of starting to unpack childhood wounds feeling overwhelming, and even a bit scary. Often it feels easier to avoid the pain than to face it. I learned how to manage the chaos of life and found ways to cope with the stress—though many of the coping skills I adopted were not the healthiest or most sustainable choices. Avoidance and masking became the devil I knew, one I was able to lean on when being too vulnerable felt too risky.

Healing is a vulnerable process. And there were times in my life I knew I wasn’t emotionally ready to dive too deep. I realized recently just how many layers my own healing journey has been, and I was surprised at how long I had been healing in different ways. Some parts of the healing road were these huge revelations where I clearly reached a major milestone that I was excited to celebrate. Other times, I felt the need to find a quiet spot to rest and reset my nervous system and cocoon a bit until I was ready to reengage. Outward proclamations of victory as well as the need to go inward to reflect and recover are both important signs of self-love and self-compassion—one just shows up with less fanfare. Both show growth.

Healing is different for everyone. For me, it felt like untangling a large storage tub full of twinkle lights. Little Minna spent a lot of time weaving those lights together as a means of protection, and untangling them takes a lot of time and patience. The more I began to untangle, the better it felt. I could see the progress happening in small and big ways. Slowly, strand by strand, the place that was once daunting and cloaked in darkness was now bathed in light.

When I found myself feeling frustrated or overwhelmed, I would take breaks. What works best for me when I’m feeling anxious, overwhelmed, or frustrated is to do something to get out of my head and back into my body. I’ll take a walk, stretch, or my favorite—turn on music that makes me feel good so I can sing and dance around my house.

For so much of my life, I was not at all in tune with my body. I willfully ignored the messages it sent me, often allowing those whispers to be forced into screams I could no longer ignore. As I have become more in tune with my body’s signals, I’ve come to understand how our body knows before our brain does when we need a break, or when something isn’t right.

Learning how to mindfully pause and observe so I can respond rather than react has created a huge positive shift in my life. The act of nurturing self-care has helped me learn to treat Little Minna and Melinda with the love and kindness they both deserve—while simultaneously allowing them both to heal past wounds and embrace authenticity and joy.

Whenever you decide the time is right for you to begin to untangle the shield of protection woven together by your inner child, I would like to offer one last nugget to you: don’t try to do it all on your own. There are times when you will need solitude, and if you’re like me, you may come to appreciate time to yourself in a way you never have before—but don’t set up permanent residency there.

True healing, in my opinion, happens in community. We as humans need connection—not just through the veil of social media—we need real, in-person interaction. Finding a therapist or a coach trained in different healing modalities to hold space for you and act as a helpful guide is a good place to start.

It is also good to have at least one reciprocal friendship or relationship that allows you each to share both your struggles and your wins. Allowing yourself to find people you feel safe with creates space for vulnerability, where you can feel seen, heard, and validated. That safety only expands your ability to reach healing milestones — large and small.

Remember to give yourself credit for leaning into even small steps towards healing. Also, give yourself grace if it takes something as big as an inner child tantrum disrupting your life before you feel ready to begin the untangling.

The next time you find yourself having an emotional reaction, maybe just pause and ask yourself, which version of me just felt that? See how that lands. Get curious. Lead with compassion rather than criticism. Be as kind to yourself as you would be to someone you love. True healing begins the moment we choose empathy over judgment.

As always, thank you for reading.

Take care,

Melinda

If my writing resonates with you, please consider subscribing. Simply liking, sharing, or joining the conversation in the comments means more than you know, and I’d love to connect with you. Paid subscriptions are always appreciated—but never expected.

Starting in May 2026, I’ll be posting bi-weekly during the first and third week of each month.

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Image by Anna Kovalchuk from Pixabay

I woke up at 3:30 a.m. Tuesday morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. I teach on two different campuses at the local community college; I’m in one location on Mondays and the other on Wednesdays. Last night, Monday was the first day of my classes for the spring semester in that location. I’ve been a trainer and facilitator for over a decade, including years in the classroom, and the first day of classes—whether a short workshop or an 18-week semester—always brings a host of emotions. Mostly, I feel excited to meet my new students and see returning students again, and I also feel nervous and anxious. This is when I really need to work hard to keep those pesky old habits, perfectionism and control, in check!

Although I can’t pinpoint the exact moment perfectionism and control entered my life, it is safe to assume they showed up around age 12 when all aspects of my life were suddenly thrust into chaos. For those of you who haven’t read my memoir, The Weight of Silence: Emerging from the Shadows of Family Addiction, this was the age when my parents split up and began a very tumultuous and painful path toward divorce. It was also when my mom’s addiction escalated and I experienced intense bullying for nearly my entire eighth-grade year. I welcomed these habits and behaviors into my life as a means of coping with the stress and trauma that overwhelmed me as the chaos continued to consume every aspect of my life.

There are times when they existed separately from each other in different habits and patterns, but for the most part they were a package deal—always there just under the surface, each one feeding the other. Perfectionism showed up in how I viewed myself and the world around me. It wasn’t just about my appearance or the quality of my work—it extended to the spaces I existed in, from my home and workspace to my computer and phone. Symmetry and organization became my way of creating control amid chaos, and even now, loosening my grip on that remains part of my healing.

Most of the time, perfectionism didn’t exist without the need for control. During adolescence, when everything around me felt chaotic, I was desperate to feel in control of anything. Perfectionism was the antidote for that, which also fed right into people-pleasing and shapeshifting for me.

I felt an intense internal pressure to portray myself as the perfect daughter, friend, student, employee—you name the role I tried to perfect it. Often suppressing my own feelings, wants, and needs out of a deep internal desire to feel loved, accepted, and have a sense of belonging. Spoiler alert—instead, it led to a feeling of deep loneliness, self-loathing, and self-abandonment.

Leaning into perfectionism and control served me well in many ways for a long time, until it didn’t. I started my working life in retail, then different forms of hospitality as I worked my way through college. Perfectionism, control, and people-pleasing translated beautifully into keeping everything neat and clean and pleasing to the eye, as well as providing excellent hospitality and the highest level of customer service.

In retail, organizing the racks of clothing by size and color and learning how to “properly” hang and fold clothing so that it was easy to shop and aesthetically pleasing was something that felt natural and calming to me. It gave me little areas of my life that I could make look clean, neat, organized and lacking in any sense of chaos. In my own closet, I still prefer that all hangers are the same type and color, with the hooks all facing the same direction and things are grouped together by type of clothing. I finally gave up colorizing my entire closet, but still tend to do it within the sections.

Even before I was old enough to start working, I was always reorganizing and redesigning my bedroom. I couldn’t do anything about the mess my life had become, but making things look pretty and organized helped to calm my brain, and therefore my central nervous system amongst all the chaos. It still does, but in a way that feels healthy rather than manic or because I’m seeking approval from others.

My tendency towards perfectionism has enhanced my ability to look at systems and processes and develop ways to improve them. I’m an excellent problem-solver. I take great pride in my work and am highly responsible and accountable. All GREAT things on a resume, AND, if left unchecked, can send me right back to the bad place.

In grad school, we did what was called a Check, Plus, Delta at the end of every class, or to provide feedback to someone presenting to the class. The Check was to highlight what was accomplished, the Plus was to focus on what went well, and the Delta focused on what you would change. Me waking up at 3:30 a.m. Tuesday morning was all about the Delta!

Starting a new semester is filled with new opportunities and inspiration, so a big part of my brain coming online way too early that morning was that. But the part that made it so I couldn’t fall back to sleep was the damn Delta! Instead of rejoicing in all the things that went well despite hurdles and typical first day happenings, I felt my mind beginning to spiral into what I would’ve changed. More specifically what I didn’t do well.

This was a very familiar pattern for me in the past, one that I could spend an entire day or longer being pulled deep into a vortex of shame and self-loathing. Thankfully, this is something I’ve spent a great deal of time healing, so instead of letting it keep me in that all too familiar “I’m not good enough” place I was able to release it.

Instead of allowing my brain to go to the dark place, I gave myself grace and focused on being kind to myself. I truly believe in positive affirmations having the power to shift our thinking and pull us out of a spiral into the bad place by refocusing on what’s good. In The Shift Within workshop I do an exercise focusing on shifting limiting beliefs by basically flipping the script with positive affirmations. This quote attributed to Bruce Lee captures it perfectly: “Don’t speak negatively about yourself, even as a joke. Your body doesn’t know the difference. Words are energy and they cast spells, that’s why it’s called spelling. Change the way you speak about yourself, and you can change your life.”

I knew I needed to acknowledge the Delta and take steps to improve what I would’ve done differently, but I also needed to focus on the Check and the Plus! Not just in my actions, but in my intentions. We can start out with the best of intentions in our planning of something, but sometimes things still just don’t work the way you hoped they would, and that’s okay!

Another grad school nugget that I, as a recovering people-pleasing, controlling perfectionist use as a mantra is to, “Go in with a plan, and be prepared to throw it out!” Initially, to me this meant have multiple backup plans in case something doesn’t work, hello control! As I healed, what it eventually came to mean for me was not just go with another plan, but to release the attachment I had to that plan. Additionally, releasing myself from feeling guilt or shame if something didn’t go as I had planned or hoped.

I had to learn to trust that I am completely capable of assessing what the current need or situation is, pivoting and finding the best possible solution in the moment. The most important thing I’ve learned is that I don’t have to do it all on my own.

Asking for help used to be extremely difficult for me, it still is in certain situations. I had no problems being helpful to others and have always encouraged people to ask me for help. When it came time for me to ask someone for help, starting with my parents, the vulnerability and shame I used to feel was all-consuming.

So, there I was wide awake at now around 4:30 a.m., unable to fall back asleep and starting to spin. I usually fall asleep to an audio version of a book I practically know by heart now, but that didn’t work. I knew I needed to change my frequency and shift my vibration. Since I couldn’t sleep, I decided to start with a meditation.

I meditate daily to help keep myself grounded, and to tap into my inner voice, you know the one that says the things we sometimes don’t want to hear but need to hear. It’s the voice that tells me what’s really going on, and why I’m feeling whatever or however I’m feeling, and it’s the voice I no longer actively fear or avoid.

Instead of continuing to be frustrated that I couldn’t fall back asleep, I embraced the early wake-up and did a long meditation that included positive affirmations I repeated out loud. Then I laid in bed with my eyes closed and my earbuds in and listened to a calming frequency with the focus on relaxation rather than sleep.

After that it was a more reasonable hour and my husband was due back from the gym soon, so I got up and made a yummy healthy breakfast for us. I still had a little bit of that energy lingering, so I figured I’d channel that energy into something creative, which when I have the time to do it mindfully cooking does for me. I also had planned on writing my newsletter that day, another creative outlet that I thoroughly enjoy and until my 3 a.m. awakening I had yet to be inspired about what to write.

Thankfully, I was able to change up my teaching schedule to two full days with a day off in between, rather than four half-days. Even though I was a bit sleepy all day after my early wake-up, I was still able to be productive while still gentle with myself. Even though I have one semester under my belt, I’m still building curriculum and adjusting and learning new systems and procedures. Eventually I’ll have things more dialed in, but I’m still me, so there is always room for improvement, I just don’t let it take me down the bad path.

I think having this day in between to reset, prep, rest and re-focus on the Checks and the Pluses, and to think about and address the Deltas without perseverating on them will be a much better schedule for me. Once the semester gets underway and I settle into my groove, it also allows me the time and space to focus on my business, my writing and other projects I enjoy.

During my break between semesters, I was very intentional about clearing out the clutter in every aspect of my life. Now that we are at the tail end of the year of the snake, I’m feeling so much lighter as we prepare to enter the year of the fire horse on February 17. I found myself not just shedding physical possessions, but asking myself why I was holding onto things, especially things I never used or wore.

The last BIG purge I did was in 2022 when we sold our house and moved out of the town where I had grown up, and my husband and I had built a life together. Now that we’ve been settled in our new place for over three years, it was suddenly so clear to me how many things I held onto or even purchased when we first moved here that were tied to people-pleasing and perfectionism.

Both my husband and I have changed and grown so much since we left the home we built together. Like everyone, we are both still a work in progress. I’m extremely proud and happy with what we’ve accomplished together and individually. As I purged from every room of my home, I was surprised to see how even three years ago I was still somewhat focused on making my home a place other people would want to visit, rather than only focusing on making it what felt right for us and the people we are now.

The work continues. That people-pleasing, controlling perfectionist is still in there, but she doesn’t have the hold on me that she did before. I read somewhere that as we reach the end of the year of the snake, we will be challenged by those old habits, patterns and maybe not so positive coping skills resurfacing in some way. This is a good thing, because it gives us one last opportunity to keep what is good, and release what no longer serves us.

Shed what you don’t want to take with you as we move forward into the year of the horse. There’s still time. Look at both the physical and the emotional artifacts of your life and ask yourself:

Does this still serve a helpful or positive purpose in my life?

Does it truly bring me joy, comfort or peace, or is it keeping me stuck?

Remember that shedding doesn’t mean forgetting, and healing doesn’t mean rewriting the past. Don’t force the shedding of something you’re not ready to release. Your body will tell you what feels right, just tune in and listen.

This week, someone who read my book told me that even though she didn’t experience the same things I did, she experienced the same type of feelings I experienced at the different phases of my life in the book. This is exactly why I wanted to publish my book. It’s why I continue to share my struggles and my wins here in this newsletter. Knowing that I was not alone in what I felt and experienced was a huge part of my healing journey. Our stories, our families and our culture may be vastly different, but we’re all human and that alone connects us in so many ways.

Hearing her feedback about my book inspired me to make it more accessible to people during this season of release. For a few days, on Amazon I’m lowering the Kindle price as a quiet invitation. It’s live now with the new pricing and I will keep it at the lower price for about a week. You can grab your copy of The Weight of Silence on Kindle here.

If you’re ready to let something go, this might meet you where you are. Publishing my book meant saying the things I was afraid to say — and in doing so, I released more weight than I knew I was carrying.

As always, thank you for reading. Wishing you the best as we leave the year of the snake and head into the year of the horse. I’m ready to giddy up, are you?

Take care,

Melinda

If my writing resonates with you, please consider subscribing. Simply liking, sharing, or joining the conversation in the comments means more than you know, and I’d love to connect with you. Paid subscriptions are always appreciated—but never expected.

Starting in May 2026, I’ll be posting bi-weekly during the first and third week of each month.

Thank you for being here. 💜

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