You are very welcome, Isabel ❤️

I wanted to add, Miss L Duchess, that it sounds like your relationship with your mother has been a big part of your experience—and some of the pain you’ve carried.

Mothers often shape so much of how we see ourselves and move through the world. I know for me, my mother’s influence ran deep for decades, and not in ways that were healthy or helpful.

If you ever feel ready, it might be worth exploring that relationship more closely—maybe in therapy, or even just through writing. Sometimes understanding those patterns can bring a lot of clarity and relief.

Anita

Hi Isabel:

I just wanted to say—I read your reply to Miss L Dutchess five days ago- and it really stayed with me. You offered such grounded empathy and clarity, especially around the grief and anger that can come with a late diagnosis. You shared your experience with so much honesty and care, and it really stuck with me.

I hope you know your message was powerful. You named things that often go unsaid, and you did it with so much care. I just wanted to appreciate that.

Warmly, Anita

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