Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Part 3:

I thought I could protect my child from the darkness I carried.

I told myself that if I loved enough, if I poured everything I had into her, it would be enough to cover the cracks in me. I prayed that she wouldn’t inherit my sadness, my anxiety, the heavy weight of silence that I carried everywhere I went.

But the truth is, trauma has a way of leaking through the walls you try so hard to build. I saw pieces of myself in her, little reflections of fear, of doubt, of anger that I swore I would shield her from. And it broke me.

I convinced myself that being the grandchild in a family filled with toxicity would somehow protect her, like there would be some invisible armor she could wear that I never had. But I started noticing the fractures. The armor wasn’t holding.
And that’s when my partner stepped in.

Not because it was his responsibility. Not because anyone told him he had to. But because that’s who he is.

He’s patient when I am not. Gentle when I am sharp. He steps into the fire with us, not to pull us out, but to hold our hands until the flames die down. He doesn’t try to erase the past, but he makes it bearable in the present.

I’ve watched him with my child, and I can say this without hesitation: he has been a healer in ways I didn’t know were possible. Not a replacement. Not a shadow. Not someone trying to take another’s place. But a steady, unconditional presence.

He’s teaching us, both of us; that love doesn’t abandon. Love doesn’t give up when it gets hard. Love stays.

And little by little, I’ve started to see the wounds close. The invisible scars forming. Not erasing the pain, but weaving hope into it.

My child is healing. I am healing. Because of him. Because of love that isn’t perfect or pretty, but real and unshakable.