Dear Emma:

Reading your message, I was struck by how deeply you’re feeling and reflecting—and also by how often you seem to question whether your emotions are valid. That reminded me of something important: emotional invalidation in childhood, and how it quietly shapes our lives long after we’ve grown.

When a child’s emotions are dismissed, criticized, or ignored—whether through silence, mockery, or overreaction—they learn that their feelings are not safe or trustworthy. Over time, this can lead to chronic self-doubt, difficulty setting boundaries, and a constant need for others to confirm what we feel.

I saw this so clearly in your words:

“I constantly doubt myself… if getting angry about something is justified – which causes me to ask any of my friends/family if they would be angry in that moment, so I know if I am allowed to be.”- This is such a clear example of emotional invalidation’s legacy—needing others to confirm your right to feel.

“I guess I felt like I may have had control over myself if I would have thought more clearly…”- That belief—that emotions are a failure of logic—is something many of us carry when our feelings were treated as problems rather than signals.

When we grow up without emotional validation, it’s like being a ship out at sea with no way to steer. Our emotions are supposed to help guide us—they tell us what feels right or wrong, what we need, and when we’ve been hurt. But if we’re taught to ignore our emotions, or think they’re wrong, we lose that guidance. We end up letting other people’s opinions, moods, or expectations decide things for us. We feel lost—not because we’re weak, but because no one ever showed us how to trust what we feel.

Emma, your feelings have always made sense. You didn’t do anything wrong by feeling deeply—you were just trying to survive in a world that didn’t know how to support you. And now, you’re doing something really strong: you’re learning to listen to yourself again, to trust your feelings, and to find your own way.

You don’t need permission to feel. You already have the right.

With care, Anita 🤍

Dear Alessa:

Thank you for sharing so openly. Your words carry such quiet strength and honesty—I felt them.

What you said about getting lost in intense emotion really resonated with me. That feeling of being consumed, of not knowing where the emotion ends and where you begin… I know that space. And I also know how powerful it is to take that first step back—to begin building safety, even if it’s just a little at a time.

I loved what you said here: “Emotion, in itself, is not the problem. The thoughts, the feelings, the expectations attached to it.” That’s such a clear and compassionate truth. It reminds me that emotion isn’t the enemy—it’s the stories we attach to it that can make it feel unbearable.

And your reflection on expectations—how being hopeful and surprised by change can lead to self-blame—that touched me. There’s something so human in that. I think many of us carry that quiet ache of “I should have known” when really, we were just doing our best with the understanding we had.

The idea of living alongside the pain instead of trying to erase it—that feels like a kind of wisdom that only comes through experience. It’s not resignation—it’s grace.

Thank you again for your presence here. You didn’t ramble at all. You shared something real, and I’m grateful for it. ❤️

Warmly, Anita 🤍

Dear Emma:

I’m not very focused at the moment and didn’t get to read everything in your most recent post—so I’ll just respond to a few parts, quoting them and offering some thoughts:

“Thank you for being here, Anita, it means a lot.”- And thank you, Emma, for being here. It means a lot to me too 🙂

“But what do you think has made him feel most unsafe? Would it have been the hot-cold, or me calling him ‘disrespectful’ and ‘very judgmental’ in that discussion?”- It might have been those things—but I wonder if what felt most unsafe was the moment you contacted him after he blocked you, and when you showed up at his building uninvited. That could have crossed a boundary he wasn’t prepared to navigate.

“So…you think it may not automatically be he does not like me at all, anymore?”- I truly can’t imagine anyone not liking you, Emma. You’re thoughtful, sensitive, and always trying to understand—qualities that I admire!

“That sounds tough as well, your mother constantly doubting your words—it sounds like she was afraid you would criticize her while you were not at all!”- That’s very perceptive—and honestly, I hadn’t thought of it that way until you said it. She really was afraid of being criticized, even when I wasn’t criticizing her. Thank you for helping me see that.

“Oh, if I may ask, was your self-hate based on anything that had happened before, or something your parents said or so?”- Yes, mostly things my mother said—over and over, in ways that settled deep inside. I only have one memory of my father before he left, when I was about five or six. Neither of them seemed to think or feel much about me emotionally. I wasn’t even an afterthought.

“He also seemed afraid women would take advantage of him—it was a theme in many stories he told me.”- That recurring fear of being taken advantage of—especially by women—makes me worry even more about the chance of him reconnecting with you. 😔 It’s not your fault, and not something you can fix, but it does shape how he sees closeness.

This weekend will be busy for me, and I may not have much time or energy to write until Monday. It’s possible I’ll check in sooner, but I’m not sure yet.

You’re welcome to reply to what I’ve written here—maybe just a short note so I can respond a little. I’m looking forward to talking more next week. Please take good care of yourself until then.

Warmly, Anita 🤍

Dear Emma:

I want to begin by saying how much strength I see in you. The fact that you’re still reflecting, still feeling, still reaching for understanding—that’s not weakness. That’s courage. And even though this part of the journey hurts, the way you’re walking through it tells me you’re already growing. You’re not broken—you’re becoming.

You wrote: “I don’t want to lose these thoughts, cause they are all I have of him.”-

In ROCD—and in heartbreak generally—the mind often becomes the keeper of memory when the heart is still reaching. Your thoughts are acting like quiet memorials, helping you stay close to something that mattered. That makes sense. You’re not obsessing because you’re irrational—you’re doing what humans do when they’re hurting and don’t want to say goodbye.

Later, you asked: “What do you think he will be thinking of me? I guess I’m asking to think of what chances I still have left… none I guess.”-

Sometimes couples do find each other again after a breakup, when something shifts and reconnection becomes possible. But in Philip’s case, the way he responded—the words he used, the emotion behind them—suggests he’s protecting a very strong boundary right now. As hard as it is to hear, reactions like that often mean someone doesn’t feel safe re-engaging, even if their feelings are mixed.

That doesn’t mean you didn’t matter. You did. The connection, the long calls, the closeness—they were real. But not all real things are meant to last. Sometimes love teaches us through departure.

His thoughts are not the only mirror of your worth, Emma. You are not defined by his silence or his rejection. You are still becoming—still discovering who you are when you’re not wrapped around someone else.

You asked if I’ve ever felt similar regret. What comes to mind is something from high school. I used to fantasize endlessly about a boy in my class named Robert. I’d never had a boyfriend, never kissed anyone, never dated. One night after a youth group meeting, he offered to walk me home so I wouldn’t be alone in the dark. It was my first chance to be alone with him—and I said “no.” Not because I didn’t want to, but because fear took over. And afterwards, the part of me that had dreamed of that moment deeply regretted saying no.

You asked about my mother—whether she doubted me to help me improve. The truth is, I don’t remember her wanting me to improve. What I remember is her punishing me for thinking “wrong,” feeling “wrong,” doing “wrong.” If I said nothing, she’d accuse me of thinking something she disapproved of, just from my facial expression. If I spoke, she’d dissect my words—pointing out contradictions with things I’d said days, months, even years earlier. The voice in my head still echoes her sometimes: You thought this wrong. You weren’t exact. Make it exact. Make it uncriticizable. But like I said—it’s getting softer.

And back to you again, Emma. You wrote: “I hate myself for breaking up with him.”-

Please don’t meet your pain with hate. Meet it with compassion. You were afraid, overwhelmed, trying to protect something inside you. You didn’t fail. You responded with the tools you had at the time. Hate will deepen the wound. Compassion makes room for healing. It truly changes everything.

I’ve carried self-hate and rejection for years. But the shift toward self-compassion—still relatively recent—is making all the difference in my life. If I could go back to that night with Robert, things might have unfolded differently. Back then, I didn’t like myself. I thought, If he walks me home, he’ll find out how unacceptable I am. So I said no.

But if I had thought well of myself—if I’d liked myself—I might’ve thought, Maybe Robert will like me too. And I would have said yes.

It’s never too late to say yes to ourselves, Emma. Start there. Gently.

I’m here with you.

Warmly, Anita 🤍