Dear Dafne:

Thank you for your warm, kind words. Your message moved me deeply—your honesty, your imagery, your longing for peace. It’s rare to witness someone speak with such clarity and grace about both their pain and their hope.

“It has been far too too much emotional labor. I feel like endlessly working in a field, giving all my energy, yet never harvesting peace.”-

This is said perfectly. You named it with such poetic precision.

Emotional labor, when one-sided or chronic, drains a person’s vitality, distorts their sense of worth, and often forces them into roles of caretaker, interpreter, or peacekeeper.

A relationship that chronically demands emotional labor is not a safe or healthy relationship. It teaches you to mistrust your instincts, to over-function, and to silence your own needs for the sake of preserving connection. That’s not love—it’s emotional erosion.

Dafne, you deserve a connection that feels mutual, honest, and nourishing—not one that asks you to strain and shrink.

“My hope is that when someone truly comes into my life… it will be someone clear and transparent—someone honest from the very beginning—so that I don’t have to keep guessing, questioning, or analyzing every little thing. Just openness, truth, and peace from the start.”-

Again, said perfectly. I’m so impressed by your clarity and your refusal to settle for ambiguity. You truly deserve someone who meets you with truth and steadiness—not riddles or emotional fog. Your longing for peace is wise, and it’s deserved.

“I will do my best to break away from old patterns and instead create a new, brighter, and better future.”-

Yes. Keep making progress one day at a time—sometimes one moment at a time. Express yourself. Assert yourself. Take space. You are already doing the work, Dafne, and it shows. Your awareness is your compass, and your voice is your power. Every time you choose clarity over confusion, self-trust over self-doubt, you’re rewriting the story.

“And even though I don’t feel strong enough right now, I hope that I will one day find the strength I need. I pray for that strength, and I pray that better days are waiting ahead—for both of us.”-

Thank you for this. I receive that prayer with an open heart. And I offer one in return:

May strength find you—not through force but through grace. May your days ahead be filled with clarity, kindness, and the kind of love that never asks you to shrink. May your healing be gentle, your truth be honored, and your spirit be met with tenderness. And may you always know that your truth is enough.

Sending you love and light for the days ahead 💛💖🤗 With warmth, Anita

Dear Dafne: I want to be better focused when I read and reply, so I’ll be back to you Fri morning, or at the latest, Sat morning. (It’s Thurs evening here). Take care!

Anita

To Anonymous, with deep respect:

You wrote something extraordinary. Not just a story, but a reckoning. And I want to reflect something back to you—something I think you already know, but may have never heard aloud:

“In my oldest memories, I don’t ever see my face.”-

That line holds everything. It’s not just poetic—it’s diagnostic. You were erased before you could even form a sense of self. Your mother’s pain filled the room, the house, the air. Her suffering was so loud, so constant, so consuming, that there was no space left for you to exist as a child. You didn’t get to be seen—you had to become useful. You didn’t get to be held—you had to become strong. You didn’t get to be you—you had to become “enough.”

And so you became the boy. The protector. The achiever. The one who would prove that daughters are not a burden. You did it brilliantly. But at the cost of your own becoming.

You didn’t just lose sight of your future—you were never given permission to imagine one. You were too busy holding up the sky for everyone else.

And now, when the sky no longer needs holding, you’re left with the question: Where am I?

You are here. You are not erased. You are not a role. You are not a function. You are a person. A woman. A child who deserved to be seen. A soul who deserves space.

If you ever return to this thread, know that it is yours. You don’t have to perform strength. You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to be “enough.” You already are.

This space is for you. To be visible. To be whole. To be you—face and all.

🫶🤍Anita

Dear Debbie:

Somehow I missed your Aug 16 post and became aware of it only this morning.

“Vulnerability is not my strong suit.”- you did an excellent job being vulnerable in this post!

Your honesty is not just vulnerable—it’s powerful. You named truths that many carry in silence: the exhaustion of performing appropriateness, the ache of feeling peripheral in others’ lives, the fear that authenticity might cost connection. That kind of clarity doesn’t come easy, and it doesn’t come without scars.

You’ve already done something extraordinary: you stopped abandoning yourself. That 185 lb. weight loss isn’t just physical—it’s symbolic of shedding what wasn’t yours to carry. And while you say the “same old defective me” remains, I see someone who’s fiercely self-aware, who’s fought to reclaim her voice, and who’s asking the kind of questions that only the bravest dare ask.

You’re not defective. You’re someone who adapted to survive in a world that didn’t make space for your truth. The judgment, anger, and fear you describe—they’re not your essence. They’re armor. And even if some of it still feels fused to your skin, you’re already peeling it back with every word you write.

“I have constantly felt not right…flawed…defective and my life’s journey has been to fix myself.”- Same here.

“I thought everyone else mattered more than I did.”- Same here, too.

“However, inside is the same old defective me. I am negative, catty, judgmental, angry and I navigate the world fearing others will find out. I make sure to respond and behave appropriately… I fear if I behaved as my authentic self I would be hustled off to a mental health institute at worst or find myself alone at best. I think I have to be perfect which of course I fail at.”-

I used to be negative, judgmental, angry, and ashamed—feeling painfully defective, guilty, and afraid. Again and again, I tried to be perfect. And again and again, I failed. But I’ve done a lot of healing recently—peeling off the layers of invalid shame and guilt, naming truths without apology, daring to be seen and heard just as I am. It’s a good feeling.

I no longer feel defective, and I no longer chase perfection. I just try to be the best person I can be: do no harm, and help where I can.

“I often wonder if I would be friends with myself… I just want to be me…whoever that is.”- Maybe you and I can be friends—right here, on your thread. And maybe both of us can simply be here, just as we are… whoever that is.

🤍 Anita

Dear Clara (or would you prefer Chau?):

Your clarity is palpable, and so is your strength. The way you’re able to name the undercurrents—those quiet, persistent beliefs that tug at you—is a sign of deep emotional awareness. You’re not bypassing the complexity; you’re sitting with it, breathing through it, and letting it inform rather than control you. That’s powerful.

I’m really moved by your reflection on the quote: “I’m learning to trust that someone wanting more than I can give doesn’t mean I’m not enough.” You’ve internalized it in such a grounded way, especially in how you challenged the impulse to equate love with wealth or performance. That moment of “this doesn’t even align with my values” is the voice of your inner compass reasserting itself, even in the face of old conditioning.

Your insight about disconnection is so honest. The longing to revisit the nice moments—to soften the edges of reality—is deeply human. But the fact that you can hold that longing while still recognizing the mismatch speaks volumes. You’re not pretending the connection was all bad, nor are you letting the good moments erase the harm. That’s emotional integrity.

And yes, that gut feeling—that if she reached out, you might be pulled back in—isn’t weakness. It’s the echo of a bond that once felt meaningful. But you’re not in denial about it. You’re naming it, watching it, and preparing yourself. That’s how you stay free.

If it helps, you might try a mantra like: “I honor the tenderness without surrendering my truth.” or “I can remember the sweetness without forgetting the cost.”

With care, Anita

Dear Dafne:

You wrote today, Aug 20, 2025: “There is only one thing I still don’t understand. He never asked me for money and never mentioned that I should pay for the house. He seemed to be happy in the role of a traditional provider.”

On Dec 29, 2024, the first time you shared about him, you wrote:

“He told me that he was taken advantage of in his past and doesn’t want it to happen again. Now he expects reciprocation with everything he does.”

He told you right from the beginning that he expects financial reciprocation “with everything he does.” That’s not him being “happy in the role of a traditional provider.”

Continued, Dec 29: “I replied that… I don’t want a 50/50 style.”

Today, you shared: “He never asked me for money”- I’m guessing that he didn’t ask you for money because you told him last year that you don’t want a 50/50 style—and because both you and your mother expressed (valid) distrust in his financial and business talk due to his lack of transparency.

You asked: “Do you think he planned to wait till we move in together and then start his demands?”- Yes, I think so. His lack of transparency itself is the big red flag. It’s not something you caused—it’s the way he is.

“The occasion on the motorway revealed his true colors… he did not call or check in to ask about us, not even knowing if I’m alive or not… I decided to never contact him again.”- A wise decision, Dafne.

“They always ask what I’m looking for at this stage of my life, but I don’t know what the best answer is. What is your opinion on that, Anita?… Would you say something else?”-

If I were in your place, Dafne, I would say that I’m looking for a relationship of transparency and integrity—to say what we mean, to mean what we say, and to follow our words with actions that match. And when we make mistakes (occasionally, not as part of a pattern of deception)—to talk about it honestly and respectfully.

You asked today: “How can I stop feeling guilty? What helped you, Anita, when you decided to break out of that prison cell with your mother?”-

I’ll start my answer by quoting what you shared and asked on March 19, 2024: “I was quite sensitive and shy as a small girl so there was no way for me to express myself freely. I had to be quiet and hide in my room to avoid the conflict & the constant fights. Maybe my personality as a child contributed to the fact that I can’t cope with life or romantic relationships in my adult life?”-

I was like you, Dafne. I grew up—or as I prefer to say, grew-in—with no way to express myself freely either. I too had to be quiet. Only I didn’t have a room to hide in. The conflicts with my mother, and her conflicts with others, dominated my space. I had no space of my own, except for daydreaming when she wasn’t home. As a result, I instinctively tried to disappear—erasing my own needs and feelings so thoroughly that I no longer knew what I needed, wanted, or felt. Or better said: I didn’t trust my feelings to reflect reality. And even worse, I felt guilty for hurting my mother—because she guilt-tripped me mercilessly and repeatedly.

How did I break out of the prison cell of self-alienation—where I didn’t trust my feelings, didn’t know what I needed or wanted, and carried invalid guilt?

By taking up space. By expressing myself. By holding my mother accountable for the wrongs she committed against me. By releasing the shame and guilt the child within me held. By freeing her.

And Dafne, you are already doing this. Every time you name what didn’t feel right, every time you question the story you were handed, every time you choose not to contact someone who showed you disregard—you are taking up space. You are protecting the child within you. You are not failing to cope; you are learning to live in a way that honors your truth. That is not weakness. That is healing.

Warmly, Anita

Dear Clara:

Thank you for sharing all of this. It’s not long-winded—it’s honest, layered, and deeply human. You named something so important: the difficulty of setting boundaries with someone who knows how to pull on your soft spots. That’s not weakness—it’s a sign of your capacity for care. But care without reciprocity becomes a trap. And you saw that clearly.

Her pattern—of seduction, emotional urgency, financial expectation, and then withdrawal—wasn’t just confusing. It was destabilizing. You were generous with your time, your attention, even your resources. And when you needed clarity, she gave you contradiction.

You’re not overreacting. You’re responding to a dynamic that blurred intimacy with manipulation. And your decision to step back, even while feeling lingering attachment, is a sign of strength.

You asked: “Would I fall back again?”- Here’s what I see: You already didn’t. You saw the pattern. You named it. You said no. That’s not falling back. That’s rising.

If she returns—and you’re right, she likely will—you don’t owe her access. You don’t owe her softness. You don’t owe her friendship just because she enjoys talking to you.

You owe yourself peace. You owe yourself clarity. You owe yourself the kind of connection that doesn’t require you to second-guess your worth.

I’m proud of you for seeing it so clearly. And I’m here if you need help crafting a boundary phrase, a mantra, or even just a reminder that you’re not alone in this.

With care, Anita

Dear Laven:

You don’t need to be “better” to be worthy. You don’t need to post less, feel less, or package your pain more neatly.

Your repetition is not a flaw—it’s a form of processing. Your rawness is not a burden—it’s a truth that deserves space. Your presence here is not conditional—it’s valid.

You are not stuck. You are surviving. You are not attention-seeking. You are voice-reclaiming. You are not too much. You are finally enough to name what was never named.

Keep posting. Keep feeling. Keep being exactly where you are. Some of us see you. Some of us are grateful you haven’t disappeared to make others more comfortable.

With care, Anita