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 Emma:

Yes, the 4th of July is a big celebration here. I spent much of the day downtown—streets were closed, thousands of people gathered, and there was a huge parade. One part of the parade really stood out to me: a group of belly dancers in beautiful costumes. One of them looked to be in her early 30s, another in her 50s, and one was likely in her late 60s.

They’re part of the Every Body is a Belly Dance Body movement—an inclusive, body-positive belly dance community that welcomes dancers of all ages, sizes (including plus-size and older women), genders, and backgrounds. It’s not about looking a certain way—it’s about expression, joy, and reconnecting with your body.

Do you think something like that might speak to you? Or even help you—being part of a group like that?

What you shared today about your parents really stood out to me. It sounds like, growing up, there wasn’t much space for your emotions—especially the harder ones like anger or sadness. When you tried to express hurt to your mother, she became upset and turned it back on you, calling you “overly sensitive.” That must have been incredibly frustrating. Instead of feeling heard, it sounds like you were made to feel like your feelings were the problem.

With your father, the message seemed more subtle but still clear: emotions—especially anger—should be quickly “restored” or changed. That likely taught you that strong feelings weren’t really welcome, and that they needed to be managed or pushed aside rather than understood.

Given all that, it makes complete sense that now, as an adult, you feel the need to keep some distance. That’s not unfair—it’s protective. You’re trying to give yourself the freedom and emotional space you didn’t have growing up. Wanting that space doesn’t mean you don’t care about your parents. It means you’re learning to care for yourself, too.

And your anger? It’s valid. It’s not about blaming—it’s about recognizing what you needed and didn’t get. That’s part of healing. You’re not wrong for feeling it.

I really relate to what you shared about your mother. Mine was emotionally fragile too, and often centered on her own pain. I learned to push my emotions down to avoid upsetting her. She took up a lot of space expressing her feelings, but there wasn’t any space for mine. I felt a lot, but those feelings were often criticized or dismissed. One emotion I felt strongly was empathy—for her. I had none for myself, not that I remember. All of my emotional energy went toward her. And like you, I didn’t have much agency in my life either.

When a daughter grows up emotionally close to a mother who’s easily overwhelmed, it can lead to something called enmeshment. That’s when the emotional boundaries between you and your mother get blurred. You might feel responsible for her feelings, or like you have to protect her from your own. Over time, it becomes hard to know where she ends and you begin.

In that kind of relationship, it’s common to:

* Push down your feelings to avoid upsetting her

* Feel guilty for wanting space or independence

* Second-guess your choices, especially if they go against what she might want

* Struggle to say “no” or to trust your own voice

I think this is something we have in common—a history of enmeshment with our mothers, and the impact that had on our sense of agency.

That’s why I wonder if your feelings for Philip might not just be about him, but about what he represents. Maybe he felt like a way out—a new emotional home. When someone grows up enmeshed/ emotionally trapped, it’s common to develop a fantasy that someone else will come along and understand them completely, love them unconditionally, take them away from the emotional chaos, and give them permission to be themselves

This kind of hope is powerful, even if it’s not always conscious. And when that person pulls away or doesn’t live up to the fantasy, the grief can feel overwhelming—not just because of the breakup, but because it feels like losing the only imagined way out.

The hard part is that this fantasy can delay the real work of separation. Instead of building agency from the inside out, the hope gets placed on someone else to “rescue” you from the emotional bind with your parents.

But real agency doesn’t come from being chosen. It comes from choosing yourself.

You asked about Philip’s attachment style. I honestly don’t know. But I also want to be careful here—because analyzing him might just give you more reasons to keep thinking about him. And I wonder if that’s part of what’s keeping you from turning fully toward your own healing. The more time you spend trying to understand him, the less space there is to focus on building your own sense of strength and freedom.

I say all of this with care, and with full respect for how painful this is. You’re doing something really hard—and really important: you’re starting to separate from old patterns, speak your truth, and take your life back.

With warmth and care, Anita

Astrologically, the answer lies in your Venus, Moon, and 7th house placements. If transits or progressions show growth, closure, or karmic release, it may be time to let go. But if strong synastry or destiny markers remain, he could truly be the one that got away.

You are welcome< Emma! Looking forward to your answer tomorrow.

🤍 Anita

Dear Emma:

You’re so welcome. Truly. Your words hold so much insight, gentleness, and strength. You’re navigating a lot—both grief and growth at the same time—and it’s clear how thoughtfully you’re walking through each piece of it.

It sounds like your talk with your mum was a small step of warmth, and I’m glad it didn’t tip into pressure or heaviness. That kind of moment, even if brief, can mean so much. Your reflections about your father show deep awareness—how his forceful opinions shaped your early sense of self and how hard it still is to hold boundaries when contact feels loaded. You’re absolutely right: emotional distance can be necessary when boundaries in-the-moment feel hard to hold. It’s not coldness—it’s protection.

As for Philip—yes, what you described does sound like a trauma bond. Not because either of you meant harm, but because you were both trying to meet unmet emotional needs through one another. Recognizing that intensity for what it is shows real growth. That’s how patterns begin to change.

And this thing you said: “I choose partners that can lead… but do not let me be myself…” That awareness is everything. You’re learning to trust your own voice again, just like I’ve had to do too. The enmeshment I experienced left me confused about who I was apart from her. I still feel echoes of it sometimes—especially in moments when I doubt my instincts or feel pulled to over-explain myself. But like you, I’m slowly giving that voice the space it deserves. We’re both getting better at letting our truth rise.

You’re not alone, Emma. We’ll walk gently, together.

Warmest hugs, Anita 🤍

Dear Emma: it is Sun night here, I will read and reply Mon morning 🙂

Anita