Breaking the Silence: A Journey to Peace & Self Worth

I wrote this on the plane, feeling a kind of peace I’ve waited my whole life to find. For years, I carried the weight of guilt, shame, trauma, and grief. Despite everything, I loved her.

The last words I said to her were,

“I love you, but I can’t have a relationship with you.”

She understood why, and in that moment, we both accepted it. That decision was my boundary, a way to honour my truth without erasing the past.

Now, with her passing and the inevitable family saga that follows, I feel like a shadow has lifted. For so long, it was as if I’d been submerged, locked away underwater.

I hadn’t realised that my inner battles, the critic in my head, weren’t about proving my worth—they were about survival.

In trying to be “good enough,” I mirrored the same feelings I’d been made to carry: that I wasn’t. In doing so, I know I’ve sometimes made others feel the same way.

When I boarded the plane, I looked back at Matt and the girls, all watching me with love and patience. In that moment, I realised how truly blessed I am.

They love me genuinely, not out of duty or obligation, but because they choose to.

That simple love, which I rarely let myself feel, struck me deeply. She is gone, and with her, the need to prove myself. I am loved for who I am, not for who I feel I have to be.

Yesterday was one of the hardest days. I spoke to my aunt, someone I hadn’t connected with in years, and for the first time, she learned of the trauma and abuse my siblings and I endured. When she mentioned mum’s friend, “He believes you’re making it up,” it was like a wound reopened. A familiar ache returned, and I slipped back into the old pattern of defending myself, trying to prove my truth.

I spent hours online, desperately searching for court records that might validate my experience. I hoped to find some piece of evidence to confirm the reality of what happened. I even searched for the man who had sexually abused us, thinking that if I could locate him or see his name on a record, I’d have the closure I’d been chasing for years. The need for this proof was overwhelming, betrayals and the scars they left were deep. But eventually, I realized that these records, as definitive as they might be, could never give me back what was lost. I didn’t need external validation for my truth; I could be free of this search, knowing it was real, with or without paper proof.

My mother’s shame, guilt, and need for self-protection had overshadowed us, making her children scapegoats while she deflected blame.

She spoke poorly of us, creating a narrative that justified her own actions.

In leaving her, I let go because she showed no remorse, no real change, even in her final years.

I’ll attend her funeral and hear the condolences and polite eulogies that paint a softened picture. I’ve read my sister’s speech, one that clings to an idealised version of our mother, one that I cannot agree with. My silence will be my respect for her now; I won’t offer half-truths just to preserve an image.

If I were to say anything, it would be: “Mum, I am grateful for the life you gave me, for the opportunities and the family that came from you. I am especially grateful for my children, who have given me purpose and strength, and who make it all worth it. For them, I held on, in the times that felt impossible. For them, I gave you chance after chance, hoping that something might change. And now, in your passing, I pray that I find the closure we’ve longed for.”

As a parent, I know the weight of expectations children have, the hope that parents will meet their needs. I know that, at times, those expectations can feel overwhelming. Yet I also know this:

my kids have always understood that our choices and decisions come from a place of love and protection.

They don’t have to question that, even on our hardest days. That simple, powerful truth brings me peace, knowing they feel secure in our love.

My mother’s failures went beyond trauma; she never truly saw us. As my aunt put it, “I really didn’t know my sister.” I realise now that I never truly knew my mother either. At her funeral, I won’t offer a traditional eulogy, because I can’t speak what I don’t believe. Instead, my silence will honor the truth. I am no longer angry; I let that go a long time ago. But I also won’t stand up and speak words that don’t reflect my experience.

If there’s one thing I can thank her for, it’s the life I have. Despite everything, I am grateful. Her passing isn’t just an ending, it’s the closure I’ve needed. For the first time,

I can look forward to a future without division within myself. I am finally free.

As I move forward, I pray that , she has found the peace and wholeness she didn’t know in life.

I hope that, through Christ, she has been made new, pure and free from the burdens she carried.

And one day, in that redemption, I pray I’ll see her again, healed and complete, a version of herself that she longed to be.