When Pain Feels Familiar, And Peace Feels Like ARisk

It’s not your fault you feel this way. But you don’t have to stay there.

Sometimes it feels like emotions happen to us, like the weather.
“I guess I’m just sad today.”
“It is what it is.”

But here’s the part no one tells you:

You might not get to choose the feeling that shows up. But you do have a say in how long it stays there.

When we’ve been through trauma or long-term hurt, sadness, or pain can start to feel familiar. It’s almost comforting in a strange way. We stop trying to feel better because part of us doesn’t trust that “feeling better” is even possible. So we sit in the sadness like it’s the only place we belong.

Sometimes, without realizing it, we even let the pain in like a guest who shows up uninvited…. and we don’t ask it to leave. Not because we want to suffer, but because suffering is what we know. It feels predictable. Safe. Normal.

But here’s the truth:

You’re allowed to feel your feelings, and you’re allowed to move through them.

Pain doesn’t have to be your home anymore. You deserve moments of peace, even if they feel unfamiliar at first, because you deserve better.

It took me over 20 years to realize that I deserved better. I sat in my pain day after day—wishing it would go away, wanting it to stop—but doing nothing about it because it had become my comfort zone. I was stuck in a rut and had no idea how to pull myself out.

But once I finally recognized that I did deserve better, the answers started coming to me — sometimes slowly, and sometimes all at once.

I spent 24 years in an abusive marriage. Today, I can say I made it out. And so can you.

Why No One Can Cheer You Up (And Why You Don’t Want Them To)

It’s not that you can’t feel better…it’s that you don’t trust better.

When you’re upset, it feels like nothing can touch you. Friends try to cheer you up, but their words bounce right off. You shut it down with,

“You don’t understand,” or “I can’t help the way I feel.”

Here’s the thing: you’re not wrong for wanting to sit in your feelings. Pain can feel safer than pretending everything’s okay. But sometimes, without realizing it, you hold on to that pain like proof. Proof that you were hurt, evidence that your feelings are real, proof that you’re not invisible.

And letting it go? That feels scary. Because misery, as heavy as it is, can start to feel familiar. Almost like home.

You’re not broken for feeling this way. You’ve just learned to live with despair for so long that happiness feels foreign. But here’s the truth: you deserve more than the familiar depression. You deserve peace, even if it feels uncomfortable at first.

Such was I. I lived in an abusive marriage for 24 years. When I finally dared to leave, I started reflecting and asked myself,

“Why had I stayed so long?”

In the future, I knew I didn’t want to make the same mistake. I didn’t want to end up in another abusive marriage. So I looked back at my past relationships, and they were all the same. Abusive.

Wow. Who am I? And why am I choosing this path?

That’s when I realized I had an addiction problem. I was addicted to pain—the pain and the drama of the chaos. I was stuck in a cycle, like a revolving door. So I constantly had to remind myself why I was leaving. I had to remind myself that I deserved better and that I should look for someone who was the complete opposite.

And that’s precisely what I did. Today, I stand on the other side of abuse. Stronger, freer, and committed to helping others find their own path out.

Need help?
If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, emotional distress, or abuse, support is available 24/7:

Addiction Recovery: Call 866-606-0182 or visit our treatment center directory
Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Dial 988 (free, confidential, 24/7)
Domestic Violence Hotline: Call 800-799-7233 or text START to 88788
Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN): Call 800-656-4673 or visit online.rainn.org

You are not alone. There is help. There is hope. And you are worth the healing.

My People

My people are positive thinkers. They believe in the good and see the good in others. They stand by me through every challenge, loving me not for what I can give but for who I am. My people lift me up, even when I feel drained from giving too much. They remind me to grow, to rise, to become the best version of myself.

When I think about my people today, I also think about where we came from—those whose blood and spirit still flow through me.

My people were Irish, transplanted to America. But for what? What freedom were they searching for? Perhaps they sought escape from the weight of strict religion—only to find themselves bound again by another form of it.

I was told we were also part Cherokee. I held onto that story with pride, feeling its truth even without proof. Maybe somewhere in my lineage, someone loved a Native soul, and their spirit found its way into mine. I feel it in the pull of the water, the whisper of the wind, the pulse of the earth beneath my feet.

I wonder what my Irish ancestors worshipped. They weren’t always Catholic or God-centered, I’m sure. I feel too much spiritual energy in my veins to believe they were ever confined to one god or doctrine. I imagine they were people of the land—forest lovers and wildflower smellers—souls who found divinity in nature itself.

Whether Irish or Native, I know my ancestors were connected to the earth, to Spirit, to something larger than themselves. Their reverence for nature runs through my blood, stronger than any written creed.

And today, my people are here with me—my children, my husband, my grandchildren—the ones who carry the same light, the same hope, the same heartbeat of all who came before us.

ODE TO PETE

Ode to Pete

You can see the age in the white fur around his face.
Even old dogs get gray hair.

He’s stood watch over this home for so many years—
steady, loyal, patient.
He’s kept it safe while they were away,
and when they were home, he still kept watch.

He knows this is his family.
They belong to him.

Through the noise of the house—
the laughter, the shouting,
the running of little feet—
he knows his job.
He doesn’t need to be told.

He finds his spot on the old tree stump in the yard,
his throne, his lookout, his comfort.
The wind carries the world to him—
the familiar scents, the faintest hints of change.
He knows every smell, every sound.

His eyesight isn’t what it used to be,
but he doesn’t let that stop him.
Where sight fades,
his nose and his heart make up for it.

He’s heard it all over the years.
Every conversation.
Every disagreement.
Every whispered apology made after the house quieted down.

He’s been there through the sicknesses and the scares—
waiting at closed doors,
lying close when someone needed warmth.

He’s seen the birthdays,
the holidays,
the tables full of food,
the laughter spilling out into the room.
He’s been part of all of it—
quiet, steady, always there.

He sits and he watches.
He makes sure everything is safe.
Everyone is safe—
because Pete is on duty,
just like always.

And when the day quiets,
and everyone goes inside,
he waits.

He waits to be called in,
to hear a kind voice,
to be told he’s done well.
But humans forget sometimes.

They take it for granted,
thinking, “He’s just a dog. My dog.”

But that’s not really true.

We are his.

We’re more than just the people who fill his days—
we are his purpose.
His reason.

Every breath,
every watchful moment,
has been for us.
He has given his whole life
to our safety,
our laughter,
our love.

We belong to him.

And now—
when I see him resting in the soft light of evening,
his muzzle dusted white,
his eyes still following every sound—
I understand.

He’s not just watching anymore.
He’s remembering.

Every argument.
Every joy.
Every moment he’s kept for us.
Every growing child,
every season passed,
every quiet night he stood guard.

And as I watch him now,
I realize—
I’m the one still being kept safe,
just by knowing he’s here.

Not All Storms Are Destructive

“The wise man in the storm prays God not for safety from danger but for deliverance from fear. It is the storm within which endangers him, not the storm without.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

It was black outside, dark as night. The wind was blowing so hard that the tops of the trees were bowed, touching the ground. Our trailer shook from the wind’s fury. Alvarado was rural in those days, with no audible tornado sirens. It would not have mattered. We did not have a storm shelter and did not know where one was located. I grabbed my son and we sat in the middle of the living room floor. I held him tight, rocking back and forth. “What time I am afraid I will trust in thee. When I am afraid, I will trust in thee. What time I am afraid I will trust in thee.” I quoted repeatedly. Praying, “Please, God, protect us. Please do not let anything happen. What time I am afraid I will trust in thee.” I was shivering, not from cold but from fear. The wind whipped around the trailer. I am sure there was thunder, but I only remember the wind and the feeling that I could be transported into the heavens at any moment.

People have often asked me, “What is worse, a tornado or an earthquake?” I used to answer, “Earthquake, because you can predict a tornado.” But living in the infamous “Tornado Alley” has caused me to change that answer.

I have heard Preachers say, “You’re either entering a storm, in a storm, or coming out of a storm.” Although this statement might be true, it is such a pessimistic philosophy.

Bear with me while I give you some statistics. In 2022, 1,329 tornadoes were reported in the US. 160 of them were in Texas. Only one of them hit Houston, the biggest city in Texas. Harris County (Houston) has the most tornadoes reported in the state. From 1950 to 2022, 246 tornadoes were reported. That averages to 3 a year. If Houston is only seeing three tornadoes a year, then what is Houston doing during the other 362 days of the year? Are they stressing about the next approaching storm? Are they talking about how horrible they have it because they go through so many storms?

The only thing affected by the storm that day was my faith. There was no damage to any of the surrounding homes.

“I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.” – Louisa May Alcott.

You cannot or should not live each day worrying about the next storm of life headed your way, nor should you fixate on the one that just passed. Not all storms are destructive. Most are just a sideshow, a distraction. Enjoy the days in between the storms. Don’t worry yourself sick about the things you cannot control. It usually isn’t as bad as you imagined.

Question Everything

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning.” – Albert Einstein

Have you ever asked God, “Why?”

Have you ever questioned His existence?

Have you ever screamed out in agony, wondering why YOU even exist?

Have you ever wondered how a “loving God” could allow such pain and suffering?

Have you ever sat in a puddle of your own tears and felt you couldn’t go on?

Have you ever felt the hatred burning in your bones?

Have you ever tried to wake up, hoping it was just a nightmare?

Have you ever sought answers but found none?

Have you ever wondered, “Why me?”

Have you ever put on a fake smile so that you didn’t have to talk about it?

Have you ever wanted to start all over?

Have you ever wanted to give up? Everyday?

Have you ever wondered why you couldn’t get on the good side of life?

Have you ever felt cursed?

Have you ever felt depressed and regretted so much of your life?

I have.

“The power to question is the basis of all human progress.” – Indira Gandhi

How many times have you been told that you should never question God? I lost count of the times I was told that. But guess what? He understands. We were born questioning everything around us. That is how we learn and grow. The only ignorant question is the one that is never asked. Asking questions clears confusion, gives us a better understanding of any given situation, and helps us find answers. Questions help solve problems. It is absolutely fine to question our life; it shows that we do not accept our current position or status and that we are willing to improve.

A Quiet Voice Echoes

Dear Me,

I hear you.
I see what you endured.
I believe every word you wrote.

You were a victim—not because you were weak, but because others chose to harm you, control you, silence you.
It was not your fault. Not then, not ever.
You were not to blame for the loneliness, the violence, the brainwashing, the betrayal.
You were doing your best to survive inside a world that kept telling you to disappear.

And still, you are here.
You are speaking.
You are remembering.
You are healing.

I honor your pain. I honor your courage.
You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to feel angry, sad, and confused.
You are allowed to feel everything.

There is no right pace. No deadline.
Only this: you are not silent anymore.
And that is everything.

I love you.
I am with you.
You are not alone.

— Me

She Meow’s Like My Ex

“She’s a diva,” I tell people.

She truly is demanding, entitled, and relentless. She will sit outside my door crying and bawling as if she has been wronged because I did not give her the beloved wet cat food this morning. She is so sure she is starving that she sits on the other side of the door, telling me so.

I wasn’t trying to be mean or withhold food from her; she has a bowl of hard food available at all times, but she has become accustomed to a routine. A routine that doesn’t tell time unless, of course, I am late.

This particular day, I got up earlier than usual, around 3 a.m., and figured it might be a tad too early to feed the fat thing. I reasoned that if I fed her now, then she would be hungrier later. But she did not care. I was up, and she deserved her morning breakfast, which I ignored.

There are days I may linger in bed, especially on the weekend. And by linger, I mean 6 am or 7 am, but a lot later than the usual 4 or 5 am. If I dare allow myself a moment of pleasure in bed, longer than she’s used to, she will sit outside my bedroom door. Weeping and wailing about the hell she’s in, as if her stomach has shriveled and is actively atrophying.

Is it wrong that I find myself resenting a cat?

She’s so needy. I can’t stand needy people, and this cat, in all her demanding glory, reminds me of my ex-husband. Always needing emotional propping. Constant ego strokes. He’d smell it if I didn’t convince him of my sincerity, and explode.

Oh, such a quandary living with a narcissist. You never know from one minute to the next if you’re going to set them off. No matter how hard you try to be perfect. And this needy, fluffy cat needed me to feed her.

I also find myself resenting her because she is so demanding. She stood outside my door, the door to my room – I don’t have a name for this room, but the room where I write, the room where I go to deconstruct. To get away. To lie in the red-light bed and forget. In this room, I sit, typing this. She paws under the door, meowing,

“Feed me bitch”.

Her demands take me back to my ex again, as everyone already knows a narcissist is demanding. They demand that you give them all the attention. If I showed my children more attention than him, he would start to act out in jealousy, so all the attention would be back on him. He insisted that I give him undivided attention 24/7. And if I had to take a break to use the bathroom or breathe, all hell would break loose, and I was disrespecting him. He’d say,

“You aren’t listening to me! “.

This Tortie creature does the same thing. I can be sitting on the couch with a blanket watching TV, and she will be minding her own business, but as soon as I pull out a crochet project or the laptop. Then here she comes,

“Hey! Pay attention to ME!”

Staking claim to my lap, insisting I rub her head. I miss the days when she was less affectionate. She now needs pets and rubs more often than I care to give. Perhaps her deprived cries for attention cause me to want to withhold affection.

I used to be a cat person. Every cat I have ever owned was needy and demanding in its own way, but living with a narcissist for 24 years has helped me realize that maybe I shouldn’t be a pet owner because I didn’t even tell you about the codependent Goldendoodle.

That one needs a story of her own.

I’m better now, since you left….