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The Spoken and Unspoken Lessons I Learned in Therapy 

I was unwilling to look out for myself.  

I don’t mean this physically or in caring for my own necessities of life. What I mean is that in the prioritizing of my sense of attachment over what was most appropriate for my own wellbeing, I didn’t look out for myself. I was making life altering decisions based upon the relational sense that the devil that I knew was better than the devil that I didn’t. That a bread crumb was better than having no bread at all. This had been explained to me as self-destructive in my 20’s and it just didn’t resonate at that time.  

I look back now and relate this behavior to how I handled therapy over the years. If my therapist made a condescending remark towards me, I let it be under the guise that it would be more work or money to find another therapist. When a therapist rejected responsibility for things that he’d said and told me that he was, “sorry that I felt that way”, I acted as if that were a real apology and not a complete contradiction to the “checking people” technique he had been trying to encourage me into. The fact that he was unwilling to apologize meant that he was in a personal position in this therapist/client relationship, and it was time to go.  

I didn’t listen to myself.

I had a therapist tell me this very simply. And I knew it was true. When I started attending sessions feeling like my once beloved therapist had given me all that he needed to and it was time to move forward, I grappled with how to say it. So, I continued for many pointless, misunderstood sessions. In other areas of my life, I carried on relationships with people that I knew meant me no well. I didn’t take my own advice. No matter how clear my inner voice was, it was never enough to overpower the attachment issue that lay dormant in the foundational structure of all my decision making.  

I was willing to let others disrespect me…

The Last Night Shift

The rays from the vibrant blue background on the call queue screen hanging above her cubicle normally cause anxiety. The time read 12:35 a.m. Alyssa checked her dashboard for the 20th time, her eyes swiftly eyeing the numbers after four years of graveyard shifts at the twenty-four-hour call center.

"There is still some cake left in the main breakroom if you want to leave that desk," Jade said as she passed Alyssa's cubicle for the second time on her lap around the office, pumping her arms at a semi-brisk pace.

She almost smiled. "Well, you know I don't want to make any brash changes to our last three years here together. Don't want to cause any panic," she joked. Alyssa would spend an entire 10-hour shift focused and secluded.

She took a deep breath, trying hard to release both the anxiety of watching the clock for the last hour and the nerves from leaving the most stable work position she had ever had. "Last night," she said quietly.

"Whew," Jade exhaled deeply as she took a breather on her third lap, peeking through the glass top of the short cubicle wall. After 15 years in the local state government sector, Jade often spoke about the call center being her retirement place. "You sure?"

"You know good and well, it would take 10 business days to undo the email thread alone."

She nodded slowly, then went back to her walk without another word. But she completed more of the back-work this shift, putting more attention into the wait times and re-learning parts of the upgraded but unfinished system, likely preparing to carry more work responsibility until Alyssa's position is filled.

"So, you're Beyonce's brother, you're being attacked by people coming…

My Inheritance

My mother kept me in a karmic position in life—karmic people, karmic situations—and she was always right there to speak confusion into my natural thoughts of clarity.
There were many times in my journey when all could have been forgiven alongside a profound acceptance and healthy distance from my personal life and choices. After all, it is our responsibility to mature and align, given a willingness for growth. But she continued to make things harder for me because of her own internalized struggles. I didn’t need to be in the room to be a victim of her manipulation. 

The Core Understanding

Narcissistic parenting passes through generations like a genetic mutation. It is rooted in one’s understanding—or lack thereof—of the core principles of self-love, not in the simplistic perception that daughters try to do everything differently from their mothers and fail. That’s a surface-level understanding. 

The inheritance of narcissistic mothering creates trauma that can take years to unpack, understand, and reframe. 

My Story at Fifteen

I became a mother at fifteen—not because I was rebellious or unreceptive to guidance—but because I spent most of my life highly impressionable to anyone who met even a small criterion for admirable worth. I created a mental platform to look up to for care and approval, positioned above my own thoughts and truths. 

I suppose I’ve been more comfortable seeing feet than I ever realized when chasing people’s acceptance—but I digress. 

My inherited understanding of life, people, and love made me exploitable. Rare but formidable opportunities to rewrite that understanding were missed due to my constant need to fix a problem by the only means I had ever known: seek help. 

At fifteen, pregnant and emotionally shut down, I had no understanding of who I was, let alone the mother I was planning to be—beyond the basics of formula measurements and clothing styles. 

My mother’s incessant need to call me a “sad disappointment” was always more confusing than emotionally degrading. The word disappointment was incongruent with her own understanding of parenting. 

The Missing Foundation

While there was a shared understanding that teen pregnancy was “wrong,” there was no real teaching about behavior, responsibility, or even how—or why—she herself had become a mother at twelve. 

Like many others of her generation, my mother spent my childhood with her life’s truths swept under an invisible rug. History was not held under a microscope and dissected for its lessons. The result was wasted opportunities and repeated behavior. 

It was a daycare employee—not my mother—who explained the limitations that having a child so young would have on my life. When my pregnancy test came back positive, my mother simply told me I needed to explain why I was “doing this” to her life… Full Post on Substack