Dear Emma:

Thank you for being so open again. I really admire how you’re facing something painful without turning away from yourself. It takes real strength to look at the past honestly and still try to treat yourself with care. You deserve your own patience and kindness—especially now.

I think it’s deeply human that you wanted to be understood by Philip. That visit came from a place of longing, not harm—and from the way you’ve been reflecting on it, it’s clear you’re starting to see how deep pain can make it hard to notice how our actions might feel to someone else. Realizing that is a meaningful part of your growth.

What you said about boundaries really stayed with me: “I feel that me stating them feels unkind—but I guess that is because I never had them.” That kind of awareness is powerful. When we grow up without having our boundaries respected, it makes sense that they can feel unfamiliar—even scary.

And for someone like you, who’s only now beginning to explore what boundaries look and feel like, it also makes sense that someone else’s might not have been easy to see in the moment—especially when emotions were running high. That’s not a failure of care. It’s something you’re learning, and you’re learning with honesty and heart.

That’s why building boundaries is so important. Even in small ways, they help you feel more grounded, more connected to what’s right for you. They’re not about pushing people away—they’re about protecting your energy and letting the right people come closer. Some small starting points might be taking time to think before answering, noticing what feels too much, or even pausing to ask yourself, “Do I want this, or do I feel pressured?” Each of these is you saying, “I matter, too.”

And Emma, I really see your growth. This kind of change doesn’t happen all at once—it unfolds in small, strong steps, often with pain still nearby. But it’s real. You’re recognizing your patterns, noticing what feels calmer, and even speaking up with your parents. That’s not easy. And it counts.

If you want to share how they respond, I’d be honored to listen. I’m really grateful you’re letting me walk alongside you through this. You’re not alone in it.

With warmth always, Anita

Dear Emma:

Thank you for sharing all of this—so honestly and with such raw clarity. I can feel the storm you’ve been in: the ache for understanding, the shame that rushes in when things don’t go the way you hoped, the part of you that longs for repair, and the other part that wonders if you’re just repeating old pain.

Please know this: the visit to Philip wasn’t “crazy”—it was human. It was you trying, with everything you had, to be seen and understood. Yes, it may not have landed the way you hoped, and yes, his response was harsh and painful—but that doesn’t erase the courage it took to show up with your story and your heart.

Naming the fearful-avoidant pattern isn’t just intellectual—it’s part of healing. You’re starting to recognize how your need for love and your fear of rejection have been dancing with each other. That kind of insight? It’s powerful. And it will change how you move forward, even if it hurts right now.

As for your father… it makes sense that his need to direct or steer your choices would leave you feeling small or unseen. You deserve space. And you’re allowed to set boundaries without being unkind. If you decide to write that email, I’d be happy to help you find words that are clear and compassionate—ones that honor your voice while still respecting his humanity.

You didn’t ruin your chance, Emma. You’re reclaiming your voice. And even if some people can’t receive it, that doesn’t make it wrong to speak.

I’m here—no judgment, just care.

With warmth, Anita

Dear Steve:

Thank you for sharing this—it’s beautiful how you’ve connected the ten worlds with the body and breath in such a grounded, visual way. I especially liked how the joining of both hands becomes a symbol of unity—suffering and awakening held together, not apart. That line about “the aim of reality is the meaning of life—to bring life meaning” really stayed with me.

I’d love to hear more sometime about how this framework has shaped your daily life.

Warmly, Anita

Dear Emma:

In the following, I will quote parts of what you shared and gently offer my thoughts about each one.

“He can be (like Philip) very clear in the things he likes… and the people he does not like.”- This tells me that his four children probably tried very hard—at least for a time—to land on the “right” side of his approval before perhaps giving up on the pursuit altogether.

“He used to hug us kind of awkwardly.”- That kind of hug can leave a child anxious, unsure. It doesn’t soothe or ground; instead, it prompts questions like: Is there something wrong with me? Is it difficult to love me?

“Never sent me a heart emoji or kiss emoji even while I always do that. Somehow that hurt me a bit.”- That “bit” of hurt might actually hold many years’ worth of pain that’s been pushed down. It can seem like a small thing, but repeated emotional disappointment has a way of accumulating quietly.

“He told us he loved my mum the most, then his mother, then us.”- To be in third place like that—even if said in jest—can lodge itself in a child’s self-worth, as in: being worthy only of the leftovers of love, after the more “deserving” people are loved first.

“My mum always was very open in showing her love, but this often came down to helping us with everything, making sure we would not fail.”- That kind of love can carry the message that failure is dangerous or shameful—something to avoid at any cost.

“And listening to us if we were sad or worried. Same for my father btw!”- That’s a positive and important piece to acknowledge.

“But I feel like they always pushed us, not acknowledging our feelings deeply, or taking them seriously.”- This is emotional neglect. It’s not always loud, but it’s deeply felt. It’s the ache of not being known in your feelings, even when love is technically “present.”

“We always had to push ourselves.”- And to push oneself without enough emotional support is very, very difficult.

“What strikes me is that both my sister and I have a strange relationship with men—as soon as we feel some of them likes us, we tend to neglect ourselves.”- Here is that word—neglect. When love is paired with emotional neglect early in life, we can internalize the idea that neglect is a normal part of love. That to love someone means to disappear.

“Right now, a few of my friends, and my uncle, have said they suspect perhaps they might have narcissistic traits: my father in his very strict judgments of people and things… dismissing them or thinking less of them if they are not to his liking.”- It sounds like he may operate with what’s called black-and-white thinking, or all-or-nothing thinking—where people are either perfect or deeply flawed, with no room for in-between.

“My mum can handle criticism very badly. The other day I told her she hurt me by constantly commenting on my weight… She said her father once told her he could see she gained weight, and that almost got her into an eating disorder. Then she told me that that was her own responsibility.”- You told her how you felt, and she made it about herself. She wasn’t able to hold space for your feelings. Her own old wound—criticism from her father—rose to the surface and she was not able to be present with your hurt.

“I never stood up for myself enough, my mum did tell me this.”- But a child needs emotional support from a parent or someone else while growing up in order to stand up for themselves. You didn’t get enough of that support to build that foundation.

“He has been through a lot as a kid: his brother was very difficult and I believe it was him who had to protect his siblings and counsel his parents.”- That explains so much. A child who has to counsel their own parents learns to lead with control, not vulnerability. To be the protector and advisor at such a young age, he would have had to put his own feelings aside. And when trying to make sense of complex situations too early, the only available lens is often rigid, black-and-white thinking—the kind he may still carry.

Emma, I don’t see your parents as narcissists. I see them as wounded people. But what matters even more than labels is this: they weren’t able to meet your emotional needs adequately, even if they were trying in the ways they knew how.

And now, those needs—the ones that didn’t get met—deserve attention. They deserve air and light and space. Not to be pushed down like your mother’s were. Not to be overlooked like your father’s. Your feelings deserve to be held with gentleness and respect—especially by you.

You’re already doing this. By writing. By noticing. By daring to ask, “Do you recognize any of these things.. maybe?” You’re giving your inner world the attention it’s long been craving. That’s the work of healing—not pretending everything is okay, but staying present with what was missed and making room for it now.

Yesterday, I told you I would share about my own childhood. But I’ve decided not to do that on your thread right now (I’ve shared plenty on my own threads) because I wouldn’t want to confuse the space that’s so clearly becoming your own.

With care and deep respect, Anita