This Isn’t About Revenge — It’s About Release

There’s a familiar weight that wraps itself around my chest every time I get ready to share something personal — a quiet, constricting kind of pain. It’s not fear exactly. It’s not shame either.
It’s guilt.
That old ghost that shows up right before I give myself permission to take up space.

It whispered to me right before I hit publish on my last post.
“Are you sure you want to say this?”
“Won’t this make you look bad?”
“Aren’t you afraid of what people will think?”

And I had to sit with that feeling — that tightness, that breathlessness — because it’s not new.
That guilt has been with me since I was a child.

Where This Guilt Comes From

I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to question my every word.
This was taught. Trained. Conditioned.

When you grow up in an environment where keeping the peace is a survival skill, guilt becomes second nature. You learn that telling the truth is dangerous. You learn that love is earned through silence and performance. You learn that being agreeable is safer than being honest. Especially when you’ve been raised by someone who doesn’t allow for anything outside their control.

That’s the part of CPTSD most people don’t understand — it’s not just about what happened. It’s about what kept happening. Over and over. The gaslighting. The shaming. The way your nervous system starts firing off warnings just from the idea of confrontation or rejection.

I was trained to put everyone else’s feelings above my own.
To keep the family secrets.
To be a “good daughter.”
To survive by staying quiet.

“Children who grow up with narcissistic caregivers often develop people-pleasing tendencies as a form of self-protection. We become experts in reading the room — but lose sight of ourselves in the process.”
— Dr. Ramani Durvasula

I’m Not Doing This to Hurt Anyone

Let me say this plainly:
I am not writing these blog posts to get back at my mother.
This is not about punishment.
This is about healing.

For too long, I’ve held my tongue out of respect for people who never respected me.
I’ve protected reputations while mine was being torn apart behind closed doors.
I’ve kept secrets to keep the peace — while those same secrets kept me in pieces.

And still, I feel guilty for speaking.

Because that’s what happens when your entire childhood is built around managing someone else’s emotional reality. You grow up thinking your truth is a threat.

But it’s not.

My truth is not a weapon. It’s a key.
It unlocks the cage I was forced to live in.
It gives breath to the girl inside me who was never allowed to cry too loud or ask too much.

I’m not here to destroy anything.
I’m here to rebuild myself.

What If They See Me Differently?

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care what people think.
I wonder if my peers scroll past these posts and think,
“She’s being dramatic.”
“Why is she airing this out publicly?”
“She must be bitter.”

Maybe they do.
But the truth is — they didn’t grow up in my house.
They didn’t lose their grandparents, their aunt, their uncle, their father before 16 — only to be left in the care of the one person who caused the most harm.
They didn’t live with someone who weaponized their grief.
They didn’t hear their name dragged through the mud by the very person who was supposed to protect them.

I did.

And even after all of that — I’m still here, fighting for my peace.
So no, this is not for them.

This is for me.

Why I Still Choose to Write

Because silence almost killed me.
Because people have told my story without ever knowing me.
Because I’ve heard lies about myself passed around like family recipes —
lazy, disrespectful, dirty, ungrateful —
when in truth, I was just a child trying to survive the chaos around me.

And not once did they pause to ask who I really was.
Not once did they show concern for my reputation, my well-being, my image.

So tell me — why should I keep silencing myself to protect theirs?

This is not a petty act.
This is not revenge.
This is me reclaiming my life.

“You are not obligated to keep the secrets of the people who hurt you.”
— Najwa Zebian

For Those Who Know This Kind of Pain

If you were raised in dysfunction, in silence, in survival — I see you.

If you’ve been afraid to speak because you don’t want to disappoint anyone…
If you’ve been told that your truth is “too much”…
If you’ve spent years hiding your trauma behind perfectionism, overachieving, or people-pleasing…
I want you to know something:

You have every right to your voice.
You have every right to your story.
And you don’t owe anyone an explanation for your healing.

I’m not writing this to bring anyone down.
I’m writing this because the little girl in me has waited long enough to be heard.
I’m writing this because I deserve peace.
And I know I’m not the only one.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
— Maya Angelou

This Is What Healing Looks Like

Right now, I’m working through the guilt.
I’m learning to sit with the discomfort of disappointing people.
I’m reminding myself that my peace is not a threat — it’s my birthright.

Yes, this story may resonate with others. Yes, it’s a shared experience for many who were raised in emotional chaos. But this version — this telling — is mine.

And I’ll keep telling it.
Because every time I do, I feel a little more free.

This blog is not just an outlet. It’s my declaration:
I am no longer shrinking.
I am no longer hiding.
I am no longer afraid of who I am when I stop performing.

To those who understand, who’ve walked this same path, who carry the same quiet ache — I’m walking with you.

With breath, with bravery, and without apology,
Shakara