I Am Not Your Villain

There are moments in life when silence feels like surrender.

And there are moments when silence becomes self-erasure.

This is not the first kind.

I have been called abusive.

My mother has been called an enabler of that abuse.

And I need to say something plainly.

I am not an abusive mother.

Abuse is not the same as honesty.
Abuse is not the same as leaving a painful marriage.
Abuse is not the same as speaking truth to an adult daughter about lived experience.

I did not terrorize my children.
I did not manipulate their reality.
I did not isolate them from their father.
I did not use fear or guilt to control them.

I raised them in conversation.
I raised them in presence.
I raised them in love.

If sharing my story when my daughter was already a young adult is now called “trauma dumping,” then words have been stretched beyond their meaning.

I never asked her to carry me.
I never asked her to fix me.
I never asked her to choose sides.

If any part of what I shared felt heavy, I would be willing to hear that. I would be willing to own unintended impact. That is what emotionally responsible adults do.

But impact is not the same as intent.
And heaviness is not the same as abuse.

There is also a difference between supporting someone you love and enabling harm. My mother stood by her daughter. That is not a crime. That is not complicity in cruelty.

It is loyalty.

I left a marriage that hurt me.

That decision does not make me a villain.

It does not erase the years I stayed.
It does not erase the nights I carried my children through sickness and fear.
It does not erase the foundation I helped build in their lives.

Being called “dead” does not make me dead.

Being called “abusive” does not make me abusive.

Labels do not rewrite history.

Yes, I am hurting.

Yes, I am grieving.

But I will not collapse into a false identity because it is easier for others to hold.

I am not perfect.

But I am not cruel.

I am not violent.

I am not the monster in this story.

I am a mother whose life is being interpreted through a different lens right now.

And interpretation is not the same thing as truth.

The Weight of Being Rewritten

There is a kind of sadness that does not shout.
It does not rage.
It does not accuse.
It does not demand.

It simply sits.

Heavy.
Persistent.
Unmovable.

That is where I am.

My son said I have been dead to him for seven years -- since the day I left his father.

Dead.

I raised him with my own hands. I taught him before school ever did. I stayed through years that broke me because I believed staying meant stability. I carried the quiet, unseen labor of motherhood -- the kind that shapes human beings long before the world sees their achievements.

And now I am spoken of as if I vanished the day I chose to survive.

He told my mother that she is an enabler of my abusive behavior.

Abusive.

I need to say this clearly -- I am not an abusive mother.

I did not manipulate my children.
I did not isolate them.
I did not control them through fear.
I did not weaponize my pain.

I waited until my daughter was a young adult before I opened up about the hurt in my marriage. We spoke as women speak -- about life, about disappointment, about truth. I never asked her to fix me. I never asked her to choose sides. I never asked her to carry what was not hers.

If anything I shared ever felt heavy to her, I would grieve that deeply. But heaviness is not the same as abuse. Honesty is not the same as harm.

And my mother supporting her daughter is not the same as enabling cruelty.

Still -- the sadness remains.

Sad that therapy language now defines our family.
Sad that words like abuse and enabler hover over my name.
Sad that my explanations are labeled harm.
Sad that my son describes his father as a very good father while I am rewritten as the source of fracture.

I left a marriage that hurt me. I did not leave my children.

But in their story, those two things have merged.

Time has not healed this sadness. It has layered it.

Each morning I wake and feel the absence before I even open my eyes. Each night I carry unanswered questions to sleep. Writing is the only place the weight rests for a moment. It is the only space where I am allowed to exist without interruption.

I do not believe my children are evil.
I do not believe I am blameless either.

I believe we are all standing in different corners of the same fractured story.

Maybe my pain felt heavier to them than I realized.
Maybe therapy has given language to feelings they never had before.
Maybe distance has hardened interpretations.

But none of that makes me an abuser.

I am a mother who loved honestly.
I am a mother who left harm.
I am a mother who stayed until she could not stay anymore.

The sadness of being called dead.
The sadness of not being heard.
The sadness of loving children who are alive but unreachable.

There are no rituals for this kind of grief.

So I pray.
I write.
I sit with the heaviness.

I am still a mother.

Even if I am misunderstood.
Even if I am misnamed.
Even if I am silent in their lives for now.

Sadness does not make me guilty.

It makes me human.

Casa Arcoiris De Anna -- Learning To See With Softer Eyes

This week, I received another full batch of photos.

To be honest -- my first reaction was not joy.

There were boards on the floor. Drawers half-open. Shelves unfinished. Angles that did not quite capture what I wanted. Lighting that did not flatter the rooms the way I had imagined.

For months, I have asked for clearer shots. Better framing. More intention. I wanted photos I could proudly post on my blog. On Facebook. Photos that told the story the way I feel it in my heart.

And for a moment -- I felt that familiar frustration again.

But then I paused.

The Powder Sky Room is no longer just paint and promise. The built-ins are there. The soft ceiling curve is real. Light enters through the window and touches the shelves gently. It is not staged -- but it is becoming.

The Blush Rose Room feels tender. The cabinetry stands steady against the pink walls. It looks quieter now. More settled.

The Lemon Meringue Room glows with warmth. Even unfinished, the yellow feels hopeful. The playful wall details are no longer sketches -- they are real and smiling back at me.

The Mint Meadow Room feels fresh and alive. The green walls hold the space gently. The pumpkin accents bring character. It is no longer just a vision I carried -- it exists.

The Lavender Haze Powder Room surprised me the most. Seeing the fixtures in place. Seeing the window framed. Seeing paint instead of bare walls. It felt like a small victory.

Are the photos perfect? No.

Are they the meaningful, carefully composed shots I have been asking for? Not quite.

But they show progress.
They show hands at work.
They show movement forward.

And I had to remind myself --

This young architect is only a couple of years older than my own daughter. Maybe she is still learning how to see the way I see. Maybe she is doing her best in ways I cannot fully measure from a distance.

Casa Arcoiris is still becoming.

So am I.

Maybe part of building a home is also building patience.
Maybe part of creating something beautiful is learning to extend grace.
Maybe part of growth is choosing to see what is working -- even when it is not perfect.

This house is rising.
Slowly.
Imperfectly.
Honestly.

And perhaps that is how forgiveness begins --

Not in grand gestures.
But in softer eyes.
In choosing understanding over anger.
In choosing progress over perfection.

Casa Arcoiris is teaching me that dreams do not have to be flawless to be real.

They just have to keep moving.

And maybe, in learning to build this house, I am also learning how to build a softer heart. Perhaps this home is not just teaching me about design -- but about grace, forgiveness, and growing beyond my own expectations. Casa Arcoiris may not be perfect yet -- but neither am I. And we are both becoming, one patient layer at a time.

Grief That Is Still Happening

 Some grief comes from death.
Some grief comes from endings.

And then there is the kind of grief that comes from being left while still alive.

This is not grief I look back on.
This is grief I wake up to.

It comes from what my children are doing to me now —
the distance,
the silence,
the way I am slowly removed from their lives as if I no longer matter.

There was no funeral.
No final goodbye.
Just a quiet withdrawal that keeps repeating itself.

People often say, “Time will heal it.”
But time does not heal what is still happening.

Every unanswered message is a fresh wound.
Every important moment I am excluded from reopens the same ache.
Every reminder that I am no longer chosen cuts in a new way.

I grieve while still breathing.
I grieve while still loving.
I grieve while still hoping -- even when hope hurts.

This kind of grief is confusing.
It makes you question your worth.
It makes you replay every memory, every sacrifice, every moment you stayed when it was hard.

And yet, I am still here.
Still standing.
Still loving -- even when love is not returned.

I am learning that grief does not mean weakness.
It means I cared deeply.
It means I loved fully.
It means something sacred was broken -- not because I failed, but because life is cruel in ways no one prepares you for.

Today, I name this grief.
Not to drown in it --
but to tell the truth about it.

And for now, that is enough.

When Therapy Becomes A Wall Instead Of A Bridge

I was blocked by my own son.

Not because I stopped loving him.
Not because I refused to listen.
But because, in his words, I have been dead to him for seven years -- ever since I separated from his father.

He told me that the only way to fix our relationship is if I get therapy.

What makes this harder to understand is that my son has been in therapy himself since last year. So I am left confused, trying to understand how healing language -- something meant to open doors -- became a condition for my existence in his life.

Over time, a painful pattern became impossible to ignore.

I believe he blames me for leaving his father.

He once told me that his dad is a very good father.

Those words cut deeply.

Because I am the one who raised him -- and his sister -- with my own hands. I taught them how to speak, how to read, how to think, how to become capable human beings long before they ever entered school. I carried the quiet, unseen labor of motherhood. I stayed present. I endured.

And yet, somehow, I am now the one rewritten as harmful.

Leaving a marriage that hurt me erased everything that came before it.

He has said he does not want children of his own.
He ended a relationship with a woman I genuinely liked.
And he shared a fear that still echoes painfully inside me -- that her family was close-knit, like his father’s family, and that he isn’t sure her family would accept him because he comes from a “broken” one.

And somehow, that brokenness is placed at my feet.

What hurts most is that he does not want to hear my truth.

He has said he does not want to know why I left his father. He calls that a boundary. He has said I should not write him a letter -- that he would not read it anyway.

So my silence is framed as respect.
My voice is framed as harm.

At some point, he told his sister that I had “trauma-dumped” on her -- simply because I shared how their father hurt me. That word turned my pain into something shameful.

Now she is in therapy too.
And now she no longer speaks to me.

What makes this especially painful is not knowing why.

Being shut out without explanation creates a kind of grief that never settles. It is worse than anger. Worse than confrontation. It leaves a mother searching for answers that never come.

I never asked my children to fix me.
I never asked them to choose sides.
I never asked them to carry what was not theirs.

I shared my story because I believed honesty mattered. Because I believed silence would do more damage than truth. Because I believed pain could be named without being passed on.

And yet here I am -- cast as the source of trauma, while the trauma itself remains unnamed.

Therapy language is now part of our family vocabulary, but instead of bringing clarity, it has become a way to justify distance. Words meant for healing are being used to assign blame without conversation.

I am not against therapy. I never have been.
Growth, reflection, and healing are part of my life.

But I refuse to turn therapy into a ransom for being a mother.

If I choose therapy, it will be for me -- for grounding, support, and growth -- not as proof that I deserve to be seen, heard, or loved.

Here is the hardest truth I am learning to live with:

Time has not healed this pain.

Each day adds to it.

This is not a grief that fades quietly. It is the grief of loving children who are alive but unreachable. There are no rituals for this kind of loss. No permission to mourn it publicly. No closure.

Blocking me is control over what feels unmanageable.
Silence is protection from emotions they cannot yet hold.
Calling me “dead” ends the story without having to face its pain.

I respect the distance -- not because it doesn’t hurt, but because chasing would erase me.

I will not beg for access to my own children.
I will not carry shame that does not belong to me.
I will not accept the rewriting of my life as if I never mattered.

I remain open -- but I will not disappear.

 

My Reflection:

I pray every day. I hold my faith tightly. And still, the pain remains.

Faith does not remove grief -- it gives me something to lean on while I carry it.

Some losses cannot be solved by prayer alone. They must be grieved, named, and held with honesty. Writing has become my sounding board -- the place where the weight can rest for a moment, where I can breathe without explanation.

I am learning that love does not always lead to reconciliation. Sometimes it leads to distance that must be honored, even when it breaks the heart.

I am still a mother.
I am still here.
And loving my children -- even from afar -- will never be something I apologize for.

ANOTHER UPDATE FROM Jan. 21, 2026

These photos don’t show a finished dream.
They show a dream in the middle of a fight.

What you see here is not polished, staged, or picture-perfect. And honestly, that’s part of why this is hard for me to share.

I have been far away, asking for meaningful photos -- clear angles, proper views, something that tells the story of each space. Not for vanity, but because THIS HOUSE MATTERS TO ME. This is not just a structure. THIS IS A DREAM I BUILT IN MY HEART LONG BEFORE WALLS WENT UP.

What I received were photos that feel random, unplanned, and careless. And that’s what hurts. Not the lighting. Not the framing. But the feeling behind the effort. These are not the kind of shots I asked for again and again -- organized, thoughtful, showing the whole space. Even a grade school child can understand “take good pictures of the room from different angles.” That was never a big request. But the output I received feels like the bare minimum, and that truth is frustrating.

Because this house is not casual to me.

The Powder Blue Room was supposed to feel open, calm, like breathing space. Instead, the photos make it look like an afterthought -- bits and pieces, no real story of the room. That space represents clarity and peace in my vision, but right now it feels like my instructions were heard but not truly understood. It’s there, but not presented with care.

Then you see the colored stairs. They aren’t just “cute.” They look like steps I’ve been climbing alone -- each one a different mood, a different day, a different emotional effort. It’s not a smooth journey. It’s layered, uneven, real.

The pink room was meant to feel soft and warm. Right now it feels exposed -- like a gentle heart still waiting to be handled with care.

The yellow room should feel joyful. And it will. But at this stage, it looks like hope still under construction -- light trying to come through, but not yet given the full attention it deserves.

And the green room says the most. Green means growth, life, calm. But here it looks like something trying to bloom while being half-managed. Full of promise, full of personality -- but not presented with the intention it deserves.

That’s why these photos feel senseless to me. They lack intention. And intention is the language I build with.

I don’t do things halfway. I don’t treat dreams like chores. So seeing my vision documented without care feels like my heart being handled without care.

But here’s the truth.

Nothing in these photos says the dream is lost.
They say work is happening.
Color is alive.
Identity is forming.
The vision still exists.

What’s missing right now isn’t the house.
It’s the right attention. The right hands. The same level of love I am pouring into this from a distance.

So this is not a before and after.
This is a during.

A home becoming.
A dream still fighting to take shape.
And a reminder that beautiful things don’t always look beautiful in the middle of the process.