If I had known then what I know now, things might have been different. Not perfect—nothing ever is—but maybe softer, maybe gentler. Back then I didn’t know I was autistic. I only knew I was ADHD, OCD, and Dyslexic, and even that knowledge felt heavy enough. The layers of misunderstanding about myself created a fog that often made it difficult to navigate daily life and relationships. I often wished for a manual or a guide that could have helped me understand my mind and how it worked, but such knowledge was lost in the complexity of my experiences.

But had I understood more of myself, maybe I would’ve had more compassion for the girl I was trying so hard to be a mother. I fought fiercely to create an ideal that I thought was expected of me, struggling under the weight of my own limitations without recognizing them as part of a broader picture. Every moment of impatience or frustration toward my children was not just a reflection of my character but a product of a mind grappling with unseen challenges.

Some of my children believe I was a horrible mother in those younger years. That truth stings, no matter how I turn it over in my mind. The echoes of their childhood memories and their perceptions weigh heavily on my heart. I desperately wish I could go back and rewrite those moments, to be the mother they needed in those early years. And yet, they’re still here. They’ve chosen to remain in our home as adults. Each day that they walk through our doors is a silent declaration of love and a testament to resilience.

I’ve never told them to leave, never closed the door. Our home has always been built on the foundation of unconditional love, acceptance, and understanding. I’ve only ever wanted our home to be a safe haven in a world that often feels anything but safe. In this space, I hope they find not just shelter but also the warmth of compassion and the freedom to express who they truly are. Despite the earlier years filled with turmoil and misunderstanding, I hold on to the hope that our shared journey has forged a bond strong enough to weather even the most painful truths. Each day, I strive to learn and grow, not only for myself but for them, as we navigate life’s complexities together.

Looking back, all I ever tried to do was protect them. Protect them from their birth father, a man too caught in his own brokenness and carnal desires to face what it meant to heal, to be present, to love. Protect them while I worked three jobs, while I moved us back in with my mother, while I fought doctors and schools and systems for their diagnoses and their medications.

I had three little ones at once—my daughter just two years older than her brother, and him only 15 months older than the youngest. All in diapers, all with their own needs, and me? Undiagnosed, overstimulated, overwhelmed.

I had a mother who expected everything, a husband who hated me, family who wanted to help but couldn’t. And I was so tired. Always tired. Trying to find medications that wouldn’t knock me out, crying in the shower so no one would hear, leaning on nicotine and compulsions to survive.

I didn’t ask much of my children. Clean your rooms. Help me when I ask. Be kind to one another. But by the time they were 8, even that felt like too much. They don’t see now that what I asked was survival training. That those simple chores were my way of teaching them how to care for themselves. What they don’t see are the years I broke down behind closed doors, the scars of a partner who couldn’t even name his own sons, the hollow love I endured until I finally began to heal at 26.

At 28, I began asking more of them—tidying, chores, responsibility. While I was juggling welfare, doctor’s visits, WIC appointments, three jobs, and the never-ending weight of trying to break generational curses. I healed some things, yes. But I created new wounds too.

I’ve apologized for them, but sometimes apologies don’t erase the hurt. Sometimes, no matter how much you try, it isn’t seen. Apologies, indeed, are just words, and even the most heartfelt can feel insufficient. I’ve seen the way their eyes glaze over when I try to broach the subject of my shortcomings, the way the space between us feels charged with unspoken resentments and unaddressed pain. It’s as though we’re tethered together by a complex web of love and frustration, always trying to navigate each other’s emotional landscapes without fully understanding them.

So now, I work on myself—my therapy, my health, my mindset. I keep showing up, even if it’s not enough in their eyes. I find solace in my self-care routines, in the little moments of peace I carve out amidst the chaos of daily life. I blog my thoughts and feelings, pouring my heart into the pages. It helps to release the pent-up emotions, those heavy burdens that sometimes feel too much to carry alone. [ But never enough to release it all, there are somethings that are too private to push out there into the world online, perhaps one day a book… but I don’t know If I will ever fully heal enough to be able to do that.]

Maybe the healing isn’t just mine. Maybe theirs has to come too. I’ve begun to realize that part of my journey involves not just seeking their forgiveness but also learning how to provide them with the space to feel their own emotions. Perhaps they need to grieve the expectations that weren’t met, the childhood they wanted but didn’t fully have in some ways. By allowing them that freedom, I hope it brings us closer together instead of driving a wedge between us.

But today, I turn inward. Today, I tend to my own soul. I reflect on the love I hold for them, the love that comes wrapped in complexity and contradiction. It’s a journey of self-acceptance, a quiet assurance that I am deserving of love—both that I give and that which I receive. Today, I will nurture my spirit, acknowledging the layers of my experience, accepting that I am a mosaic of my successes and failures, and promising myself that I will continue to seek light in the shadows.

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My Affirmation

I did my best with what I knew, and that is enough. I forgive myself. I honor the woman I was, the mother I am, and the soul I continue to become.

My Ritual for Healing

• Light a white candle for forgiveness and a blue one for peace.
• Write down the regrets—the guilt, the shame, the what-ifs.
• Burn the paper safely, watching the smoke rise.
• Whisper: I forgive myself. I move forward.

My Meditation

Close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Picture your younger self—exhausted, overwhelmed, but trying with everything she had. Place your hand on your heart and tell her:
“I see you. I forgive you. You did your best.”

Let her step into the light, free of the burdens you’ve carried for far too long.

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Much love and many blessings,
Mrs. B