Most of us try not to linger too long in the past, but for some of us it hangs overhead like a stubborn cloud. I don’t love that so many of my posts circle back to the harder parts of my childhood, yet pretending they didn’t shape me would be dishonest. The past is part of who we are — whether we want it to be or not.
Children who grow up with praise and encouragement tend to become adults who are open, responsive, and confident in their abilities. They develop intrinsic motivation, try again after failure, and internalize values. They trust adults more easily, communicate more freely, and build healthier social connections.
Their counterparts — the children who grow up with yelling, criticism, or emotional neglect — often become more closed off. They learn to avoid risk, not because they lack ability, but because they fear punishment. They may give up sooner, attribute success to luck, and struggle with fragile self‑worth. Trusting others becomes harder. Forming secure attachments becomes a challenge.
And whatever parenting pattern a child grows up with often becomes the one they unconsciously repeat. I’m not exempt from this. On days when I’m tired or short‑tempered, I catch myself yelling over things that don’t matter. I try not to dwell on the past, but it’s hard not to when I see echoes of it in my own reactions. Still, I take pride in knowing I’ve never reached the extremes of what I lived through.
I’m trying to break the cycle of abuse — what many call generational trauma. It’s a broad term, because trauma takes many forms: emotional, physical, mental. Generational trauma describes how pain and patterns pass from one generation to the next through learned behaviors, family systems, and even biological stress responses. When a parent who was abused becomes an abuser, that specific pattern is often called the intergenerational cycle of abuse — a narrower, more precise piece of the larger picture.
I don’t want my children to sit across from a therapist one day because of the way I raised them. And to be clear, there is nothing wrong with therapy — I’m in it myself. But my hope is that their childhood won’t be the central wound they spend their adulthood trying to heal. Breaking old habits is harder than it sounds, especially when the only model of motherhood you had was one shaped by fear.
So yes, I think about the past a lot. I compare my mother’s reactions to my own and ask myself whether her way was the right way. Often, the answer is no. That doesn’t erase the things she did right — it just acknowledges that some of what I learned wasn’t healthy. In many ways, writing this blog is its own form of therapy.
I was the child told to shut up and sit down. To be seen, not heard. I was smacked, insulted, and taught that invisibility was safety. Staying quiet meant staying out of the line of fire. That survival strategy followed me into adulthood.
I still struggle to stand up for myself. My voice shakes when I use it. Public speaking feels like stepping into danger. Even being recorded doing my job sends me into panic. I’ve turned down promotions because the thought of being seen by a crowd makes my mind go blank and my body want to fold in on itself.
I hide behind dark humor and excuses:
“I don’t like how I look on camera.” “I teach better one‑on‑one.” “Large groups just aren’t my style.”
The truth is simpler: being seen still feels unsafe.
So here I am — a faceless name on a blog. Anonymous. Invisible. Safe.
But my goal is to change that. To break the bonds that keep me small. To spend more time thinking about the future instead of reliving the past.
And if any of this resonates with you, please know you’re not alone. I hope you find your voice, too.
You deserve to be seen. You deserve to be heard. Your voice matters. You matter.
Until next time, keep the coffee hot and the chaos manageable.
The Overbooked Life 
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