My Purpose, Built from My Past

As I begin to share more of my journey, I think it’s important to give a little context—some family history.

It’s nothing extreme or dramatic, and I’m not sharing this to complain or ask for sympathy. I know many people have been through much harder things. But these pieces of my past shaped me, and they matter in understanding how I show up in the present.

I don’t think any parent gets it all right.
Our job is to do better for our kids—to give them more than we had, in the ways that matter.

And while I may not be able to give my little person every material thing, I’ve made sure they get the best version of me I can offer.
I’m not repeating the same mistakes—at least, not the ones I can control.

I love my parents very much.
There have been times when my relationships with each of them have felt strained, but I know they were supportive, loving, and always made sure we didn’t go without.

That said, what I witnessed between them as husband and wife left an imprint on me from a young age.

I can’t speak for my sister, who’s four and a half years younger, but I always felt like I carried more of the weight—maybe just because I was older and more aware.

When they argued, I could hear everything through the wall of my bedroom.
I always knew when Dad was mad—he’d come out with that tight, angry face, and Mom would have tears in her eyes.

Dad often struggled to separate his emotions from disagreements with Mom, and we sometimes felt the sting of that tension in subtle, passive-aggressive ways.

Mom, in her own pain, would vent or criticize him out loud when he wasn’t around—things a child shouldn’t have to hear.

Their dynamic was confusing.
Just when things seemed broken, they’d be out going to dinner or a movie together.

I used to think that was just what marriage was: fights followed by forgiveness.

But in middle school, when my dad moved out, I started to realize maybe it was more serious than I understood.

I remember blaming him—
Until I saw the tears in his eyes when he walked us around the block to explain he’d only be living a few streets away.
That image stuck with me.

Not long after, I’d hear my mom blasting Cat Stevens while cleaning or pacing around the house. It felt frantic.

And I kept a lot of my own feelings to myself—
Middle school was already hard enough without adding that kind of weight.

One night stands out vividly.

Mom was really upset and put my sister and me in the car to go to Dad’s apartment.
When we got there, I recognized a few of his co-workers and friends outside.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it—maybe they were just helping him settle in or offering support.

But Mom was furious.

As we walked inside, I stood silently against a wall, holding my sister’s hand while she yelled and accused one of the women there of having an affair with Dad.

I remember the looks on everyone’s faces—especially my dad’s—as they glanced over at me.
There was so much sadness in their eyes.

Why would a mother bring her children to witness something like this?

That moment is seared in my memory.
It was the first time I realized that what I’d seen between my parents wasn’t just tension or temporary conflict—
It was something more complicated. Something broken.

A few months later, I woke up one morning before school and saw Dad asleep in Mom’s bed, his bags of clothes next to him.

I was overjoyed.
As a daddy’s girl, it felt like I had gotten back something I’d desperately missed.

Years of similar fights and forgiveness continued, but they stayed together.

I went off to college, grateful not to be part of the daily ups and downs of their relationship.

After graduation, I moved back home—unaware of what was coming.

There were new suspicions of infidelity on my dad’s part, and now that I was an adult, my mom started sharing more about their past and his behavior over the years.

I was angry.
Suddenly I felt the urge to uncover the truth myself, to catch him in it somehow.

Eventually, the truth did come out.
My dad had been unfaithful, and my mom kicked him out.

But it all unfolded with the same emotional chaos I had witnessed as a kid.
And while I completely understood her pain and betrayal, I still wished I hadn’t been there to see it again.

Thankfully, I soon moved out and thought I was finally removing myself from the middle of it all…

Or so I thought.

Divorce is often ugly and heartbreaking, but I never expected the process itself to leave such a deep mark on me.

At that point, I barely had a relationship with my dad—mostly out of anger over what he had done—and I had made my feelings very clear, even to his parents.

My loyalty leaned toward my mom.
She knew that.

And with that knowledge, she wanted to make sure she "got what she deserved" in court.

From my perspective, she was hurting—and wanted to hurt him back, financially too.

I was doing my best to stay out of it, trying to live my own young adult life.

But then she told me she needed me to testify against my dad.

I was shocked.

Testify? About what?

Because I had helped him with business invoices in the past, she wanted me to say in court how many were voided and how often cash was accepted.

It felt petty.
And it definitely didn’t feel like my place.

I pushed back.

That’s when she told me if I didn’t do it willingly, she could subpoena me.

What?

I was furious.

I may not have been a child anymore, but I was still the kid in their relationship.
I didn’t deserve to be used as a pawn.

But that’s exactly how it felt.
Neither of them had the selflessness to keep me out of it.

Despite my frustration with both of them, I stayed closer to my mom.
In my eyes, she was still the “innocent” one—the one who had been hurt.

Years of hostility between them revealed deeper issues in their relationship.

And although I did not support the way my dad chose to end the marriage, I began to see that he hadn’t been happy for a long time.

My mom, however, was completely and utterly broken—unable to move past the life she had envisioned, not just with my dad, but with us girls, too.

As an adult, I eventually found reconciliation with my dad.
But that brought new tension with my mom.

Holidays, birthdays, or even casual plans with him often stirred resentment.

It felt like I could never have them in the same room without tension thick in the air.

It was heartbreaking.

All I ever wanted was for my family to be together—
Or at the very least, to be healed enough to accept that our lives, especially for us girls, needed to move forward in peace.

My relationship with my mom has had its ups and downs, shaped by her struggle to let go of the past and not live permanently in the role of the victim.

That dynamic has put strain on us—
A balance we’re still working to figure out.

When I got married and became part of a beautiful blended family, we were overjoyed to be bringing our own addition into the mix.

But I had fears—real fears—about how the past might seep into the present.

Would there be resentment around my child?
Would they hear negative talk?
Would they feel the tension in a room the way I used to?

Would history repeat itself?

Ultrasound in hand, I made a quiet vow:

No matter what happened in my life, my little person would never grow up in that kind of environment.

I know that sounds idealistic—maybe even controlling—but what I mean is simple:

My child will know that families are built on love.
They might not always agree, but they show up.
They stay kind.
They protect each other, especially in front of the littlest ones.

The adult complexities—the ones too heavy for a child to carry—will stay where they belong: with the adults.

When my child grows up and begins to have their own life experiences, we’ll be there to answer questions.
With honesty, yes—but also with grace.

When it felt like my own life was heading toward the same kind of ending I had witnessed growing up, I made a decision:

I was going to break the mold.
I would do it differently than my parents did.

My little person became my purpose.

The painful lessons I lived through taught me exactly what I didn’t want to pass down.

I promised myself they wouldn’t see me fall apart or act out of character—
Not because I wasn’t hurting,
But because they deserved better.

Even while I was standing in the middle of a terrible thunderstorm,
I made sure they still saw rainbows and sunshine.

There were moments—so many—when I could have acted out.
Most people in my situation would have.
Some did.

And many still can’t believe that I didn’t.

But the truth is, I didn’t hold it together because I was strong.
I held it together because my little person was my anchor.

In those early weeks and months, they were my why—
My steady place
when I hadn’t yet built the faith or strength
to find my own.

I know I’m not alone in this.

Many of us grow up learning the wrong kind of love,
and then spend our adult lives trying to unlearn it.

But every gentle choice,
every moment of self-control,
every quiet decision to love better—
It all matters.

It all adds up.