What I Wish My Family Knew
I have been thinking a lot about my family lately and the regrets I carry from being in the religion for so long.
But when I really sit with it, I also realize something important.
I know there were moments of real love, fun, and connection between us.
My nephew used to cry when it was time to leave my house. I remember that so clearly. I remember a day when it was just the two of us and we went to the reptile zoo together. That was such a happy day.
I remember my kids sitting together with them, eating their first popsicles from the popsicle man. My brother and sister in law laughing like, “oh no now she knows what that music means.” There are so many memories like that. So many pictures of them all together.
We really did create something beautiful, even if it did not look like everyone else’s version of family. Even if we were not there for holidays and birthdays.
And the truth is, that part hurt more than anyone knew.
There were times my family would call around the holidays and after we got off the phone I would cry for hours. I missed being there. I missed the gatherings, the traditions, the feeling of being included in those moments.
I felt that loss deeply, even while I was trying to be faithful to what I believed was right.
I also remember when my family decided my niece should go to daycare.
That devastated me.
They said she needed more social interaction, but deep down I knew it was about the religion. And even though I can understand why that may have felt like the right decision for them, it still hurt.
To me, she had me. She had her aunt. She had her two cousins. That time together meant everything to me.
So when they chose something different, it felt like a loss I did not quite have words for.
And then later, when they let me watch my nephew for a few weeks, I felt so privileged. I valued that time so deeply. It was not just babysitting to me. It was connection. It was love. It was something I held onto.
Because I truly believed I could still keep the connection going, even within the limits of my beliefs at the time.
And that is where the complexity comes in.
Because I wish my family understood that I truly believed I was doing the right thing.
I thought I was protecting my family. I thought I was doing what all families should be doing. I believed it would lead to something better. A paradise earth. A place with no sickness, no death.
Should not everyone want that?
I believed the sacrifices would be worth it.
What I think is misunderstood is this.
I am still the same person.
I am not different in the ways that matter. I am just no longer being manipulated.
I have always been kind, loving, compassionate, fun, caring, genuine, and authentic. I have always loved and adored children. They have always been my heart.
What my family did not see is how much internal conflict I carried. From the outside it may have looked like I was choosing distance, but inside there was grief. There was pain. There were parts of me that were breaking while I was trying to do what I believed was right.
And now, on the other side of it, I can see how much could still be possible.
Without religion and politics, we could have something really beautiful.
We could just be a family.
We could laugh, connect, and be together the way we used to be.
We may not see the world the same way right now, and that is something I am still learning how to navigate.
And the truth is, some of that has come back.
Some of my family has opened their arms back up to me.
And some have not.
And I get to accept that.
That does not mean it does not hurt.
There is still a quiet grief that exists, both for what was missed then and for the distance that still exists now.
But I no longer live in regret.
I live in acceptance, in truth, and in love.
What I can control is who I choose to be.
If they never respond, I will still continue to live my life the way I am now.
I do not allow anyone or anything to change my behavior anymore.
I will continue to show up as the authentic, loving person that I am.
Because that is who I have always been.
And I can finally say this with clarity and compassion for myself.
I was 18 years old when I was brought into that religion.
I was a child.
So I offer myself grace.
I honor the love I gave then, even within limitation.
I honor the pain I carried quietly.
And I honor the love I give now, without it.
I am still here.
I have always been here.
And I always will be.
