“One day, you’ll have a child just like you.”
It was said to me like a threat—almost like a curse.
Now I have four children who are more like me than I care to admit 😂 I see my caring nature, my kindness, my sass, and my charisma reflected back at me every day.
And somehow, raising them has made me understand my own mother less.
Because although my children challenge me, overwhelm me, and regularly test whatever sanity I have left, they also make my life incredibly full. Seeing myself in them has helped me recognize that the parts of me that were treated as difficult were never evidence that I was unlovable.
For most of my life, being a “good daughter” meant loyalty, putting my family of origin first, and engaging in marianismo: sacrificing myself, keeping the peace, validating everyone else’s feelings, and quietly dismissing my own.
When I finally started setting boundaries, they were treated like punishment.
But a boundary does not mean, “I want to hurt you.”
It means, “I cannot continue allowing this to hurt me.”
Choosing myself was not empowering in the cute, inspirational Instagram way. It was fucking painful. It cost me relationships, peace, and a home my children once understood as their safe space.
I am still grieving—not only what I lost, but what I am realizing I may never have truly had.
But I am also learning that another person’s refusal or inability to change is not evidence that I am unlovable. Their limitations do not determine my worth.
With my own children, I try to do things differently. When I hurt them, I apologize. I name what I did wrong, explain how I plan to change, remind them how deeply they are loved, and admit that I am still trying.
Sometimes they forgive me immediately. Sometimes they tell me what hurt. Sometimes they need space.
Their emotions are not punishment. Their boundaries are not rejection. And their honesty does not threaten our connection.I did not choose myself because I stopped loving my mother. I chose myself because loving her could no longer require abandoning me.
I may have lost the home I thought would keep us safe, but I am building another kind of home with my family—one filled with laughter, sarcasm, jokes, sadness, feelings, accountability, and connection.
A home where love does not require silence.
A home where everyone gets to belong without giving up who they are.
That calm, quiet life I have wanted for years?
I’m finally learning how to build it.