Dear Alessa:

Your post above is truly perfect. You showed up for me in the most thoughtful and meaningful way, and I’m in awe of you at this moment.

* Taking a moment to share my thoughts after writing the above:

I worry that other members might feel offended because I didn’t tell them their posts were perfect.

When I wrote “at this moment,” did I inadvertently imply that I’m not in awe of her at other times?

These are the kinds of thoughts that have tortured me repeatedly. They stem from my mother’s relentless scrutiny—she would find fault in anything I said, accusing me of ill intent, regardless of how well-meaning my words were. She’d point out where I went wrong, where I slighted her, or where she felt I subtly tried to insult her.

Back to my opening two sentences: they were genuine, no ill intent. Nothing to fix.

Thank you so much, Alessa, for caring for me and showing up with such thoughtfulness and empathy. It means a lot to me. I truly appreciate the effort you put into being present, especially when discussing something as sensitive as trauma. Please know that I don’t want to trigger your PTSD in any way, and I’ll be mindful of that as I share more about how our experiences are similar.

It means a lot to me that you care about how I feel and want to support me in the best way possible. I promise to let you know if something isn’t helpful, and I also want you to know that I’m here for you too. If there’s ever anything I can do to support you, please don’t hesitate to let me know.

* After reflecting further, I realized this post was becoming quite long, so I’ll wrap it up here and continue in a separate post. ❤️

anita

Dear Alessa:

Thank you for caring to be here for me at a time when I need help, it means a lot to me. ❤️

I am looking forward to your next reply and will process all tomorrow morning.

anita

I am coming to understand that my mother perceived my empathy and sincere efforts to help her as something that exposed her vulnerabilities, making her feel weak. Rather than feeling supported, she felt threatened—interpreting my care as shining a light on emotions she preferred to keep hidden, such as her feelings of inadequacy. This triggered a defensive reaction, and she responded with aggression as a way to protect herself.

At the same time, when I expressed empathy, she seemed to experience it as a shift in power—placing me in a position of emotional strength and leaving her feeling weak in comparison. For someone struggling with feelings of inadequacy, control can become a way to cope, masking or managing those insecurities.

By exerting authority over situations or people, they create an illusion of competence or strength.

For her, any sign of strength on my part—whether it was showing empathy or believing I had the ability to help her—felt unsettling, prompting her to react aggressively in an effort to reassert control.

anita

Dear Jana:

I want to follow up on my recent message and say that if sharing feels right to you, I would truly value reading your thoughts. Whatever you feel comfortable sharing is deeply appreciated. Most importantly, I hope you feel safe and supported here—both in this thread and throughout the forums.

I value how you reflect on your own way of thinking and learning—it’s thoughtful and insightful. I admire your self-awareness in recognizing what works best for you, such as focusing on practical, real-life situations rather than abstract concepts. I also appreciate the balance you found in giving yourself the freedom to take breaks and return with a refreshed mind—it’s a thoughtful way to care for yourself while still engaging meaningfully with others.

Also, thank you for the care and openness you have shown in distinguishing your preferences from the freedom of others to express themselves in their own way. It’s such a kind and inclusive perspective, and it adds so much to the welcoming space you help create for meaningful conversations.

You wrote, “My mother misunderstands compassion. She often thinks that I ‘pity’ her when I express something nice or want to help her (she cannot walk well) and it makes her upset. That’s why I keep my compassion mainly in my heart, too.”- It’s very sad how something as inherently positive as compassion can be misunderstood to be something negative. I experienced a similar dynamic with my mother. She often misinterpreted my compassion for her, seeing it as something entirely opposite—aggression toward her—and, in turn, responded with her own aggression against me.

As a result, I doubted my emotions, including empathy. I came to see that it was a harmful feeling that had hurt my mother. Later in life, whenever I felt empathy for someone, I couldn’t shake the fear that my empathy might actually be causing them pain.

Thank you so much for your kind words, Jana. I feel grateful for the thoughtful connection we’ve built here.

anita

Dear Jana:

I will reply further later, but for now, in regard to “I wanted to share some memories about anger, abuse… but I don’t know now if it is appropriate or useful. I’m glad there’s a happy atmosphere here and these topics could ruin it.”- please do share, it will ruin nothing for me and I am very interested in reading your thoughts about any topic, 🥲 or 😔 and all in between.

anita

Dear Peter:

As I read your profound insights and the quotes you included, I find myself- as i often do- developing my own thoughts alongside them.

“I can hear myself saying ‘family can’t help family.’ I do not recall the events leading up to that realization… or maybe I do…” — Perhaps the mind shields itself from painful or complicated memories, hesitating to fully confront and process the events.

For the longest time, I didn’t remember that my mother found pleasure in seeing her shaming words register on my face. When that memory resurfaced about a year ago, I saw her more as a villain—a further shift from viewing her as a victim to seeing her as a victimizer. Over the past couple of days, as my anger seems to have untangled, I no longer view her solely as a victim or a victimizer. I see her as both. And now, instead of anger, I feel compassion for her.

“In trying to help family our ‘ghosts’ can’t help themselves from ‘playing’ and haunting, triggering old pains. Pain that only distance is capable of seeing…” — I am learning that recognizing and working through my own emotional pain is critical to ensuring that I don’t unintentionally complicate or hinder a family member’s healing process.

Acknowledging my emotional pain helps me differentiate my feelings from theirs, preventing projection. If my pain remains overwhelming or unresolved, it blurs boundaries—causing me to take their pain too deeply or feel drained in my attempts to help. Addressing my own pain makes it possible for me to be present without overextending myself.

Unresolved pain can cause me to dismiss, amplify, or misinterpret a family member’s feelings. By working on my healing, I can empathize genuinely, without reacting from my own hurt.

Demonstrating emotional resilience and awareness may create an example for loved ones—showing them the importance of personal growth and the value of addressing their own challenges.

Supporting someone doesn’t mean “fixing” their pain—it often means simply witnessing and validating their experience. When I work through my own emotional pain, I am better equipped to offer this kind of nonjudgmental support.

“I wonder if in such moments witnessing is the role left to us, perhaps to acknowledge the ‘tears in things’… doesn’t feel enough. The Hawaiian ritual Ho’oponopono coming to mind as memory of family, mother, father arise… I love you; I thank you; I forgive you, please forgive me…” — Witnessing their pain means being present, empathetic, and nonjudgmental—not trying to fix or change the situation, but simply acknowledging it.

“I recently came across a Youtube video – Like Stories of Old – ‘Why We Can’t Save Those We Love’ that explores this notion. That in the stories we tell and witness we are not alone… It’s worth watching.” — For some reason, I feel reluctant to watch it. Maybe I will. As to the question, “Why can’t we save those we love?” an answer that comes to mind is that we care too much. The saying, “anything in moderation,” seems relevant. How do I not care too much? By resolving further my own pain.

“It is true we can seldom help those closest to us.” — Our own unresolved issues and emotions—our “ghosts”—often resurface. These ghosts can unconsciously shape how we perceive and respond to their struggles, complicating the situation rather than helping it. In close relationships, blurred boundaries can make it difficult to differentiate between their pain and our own, leading to either overinvolvement or detachment—both of which are counterproductive.

Even with the best intentions, our ability to help is limited because no one can truly “fix” someone else’s inner struggles. We can offer support, but the work must be done by the individual themselves.

“Either we don’t know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted.” — Even with the best intentions, the support we provide may not align with what the person actually needs or is ready to accept. For instance, offering advice when they only want someone to listen, expressing concern when they perceive it as judgment, or taking action when it feels patronizing. This makes me think that the most effective way to help is to simply be present—bearing witness to their experience and respecting their autonomy to heal in their own way.

“And so, it is those we live with and should know who elude us. But we can still love them – we can love completely without complete understanding.” — This highlights the individuality of human beings. No matter how close we are, there will always be elements of mystery in relationships. While complete understanding may elude us, it doesn’t have to limit our ability to love fully. Love isn’t conditional on perfect comprehension; it is rooted in acceptance, empathy, and presence.

“What I saw might have been just another winter scene, although an impressive one. But what I knew was that the earth underneath was alive and that by tomorrow, certainly by the day after, it would be all green again. So, what I saw because of what I knew was a kind of death with the marvelous promise…” — Maclean beautifully reflects on the contrast between the apparent “death” of winter and the vibrant life hidden beneath it. By recognizing the earth’s cyclical transformation, he captures the promise of renewal.

The strangest thing just happened. I just felt something entirely new: a sadness, a goodbye to the winter of my life— a goodbye to the old me. I felt as though I will miss the old me, however painful my life has been, because it will soon be gone. This transformation—from anger to compassion, from duality (this OR that) to inclusiveness—marks the death of the self I’ve known and experienced until now. I will miss me. strange..?

anita