Dignity for All

On Saturdays,
I meet with a small group of politically engaged people,
holding signs aimed at sparking awareness.

My sign reads:
“Dignity for All.”
On the other side:
“Condemn Violence.”

I think—
who wouldn’t want that?

And yet, week after week,
people slow their cars way down
to lock eyes with me,
with raised middle fingers.

It’s startling—
rage, hatred, ill will—
aimed at something pure.

I am noticing how this climate
mirrors my experience with my family of origin.

There’s a crusader energy to it—
a kind of moral conquest
that regards disagreement as betrayal, assault


Difference read as defiance- calling for colonization.
merciless persecution, destruction and punishment.

In my family system,
my sensitivity and limits were read the same way—
not as difference,
but as defiance.

That dogmatic logic breeds persecution.
Cruelty and harshness justified
when a person’s innate differences
are judged as willful disobedience.

When rage is sanctified,
violating others is deemed righteous.
Making cruelty not only permissible,
but earned.

I can’t accept
that disappointing or disagreeing with another
should unleash war.

When I see the faces of people twist in hate over “digitnity for all”,
I feel the echo of that pattern from home.

Banishing me became
the right thing to do.
My absence became
a victory.

I struggle to conceive
how that is in service to wholesome love.

Families have complex loyalties;
I might almost accept
the division from my mother.

But to actively extend that division
to my children, who easily could have been spared—
to model for them that banishment is virtue—
feels unconscionable.

Devastating.

Gathering and communicating in ways which insidiously and consistently diminish me to my boys.

People can deny
what they’ve done or not done, said or not said, and even their motives,
but the impact on my mind and body
is undeniable. The impact on my teen boys- immeasurable.

I begged—
for repair,
for shared reckoning,
for the simple act of staying
in relationship
through difficulty.

When I finally stepped away
to protect myself,
the story became
that I had opted out.

That lie became their shield—
their justification,
their victory narrative.

Children should not be divided
from their parents.

I shouldn’t have been divided.
My children shouldn’t have been divided.

This is the family pattern—
the cycle refusing to be broken.

Some might point to me
as the common denominator, the CAUSE

I was groomed for environments
that would keep me afraid.
Conditioned to take
my rightful lesser place
among those who feel disrespected
by my limits.

I’m trying to stay curious

What happens inside people
when connection is hinged
to reverence?

What are we protecting
when we turn on one another
in the name of being right?

How does moral certainty
slide so easily into crusade—
into colonization,
persecution,
and violent conquest?

The price my sons pay
is high.

For this victory.
Preservation of power.

And a cautionary tale
to anyone else
who might dare
to deviate.

Two white puzzle pieces lie side by side on a wooden surface. They almost fit together, but one is turned the wrong way—suggesting that with a simple shift, they could connect. A metaphor for repair and resolution in relationships.

Strong Enough to Be Sorry

I heard it said today—and I’ve also read it—that secure attachment can only exist where people can be counted on to go back and do the work of repair when they’ve fallen short.

That landed with me. Because I know I’ve created a space for secure attachment by being willing to repair. But it can’t exist with people who are what they call “conflict avoidant” but really are “repair avoidant.” It doesn’t matter how much I want to own my part and make it right—secure attachment isn’t possible with someone who won’t engage in repair.

I think about this with my children. Their father has never repaired with them. Never acknowledged his own wrongness or falling short. Because in his world, strong people don’t make mistakes, don’t fall, don’t struggle, and they’re certainly never sorry.

Loving and Honoring our Baby Humans

At the salon where I go for help with managing my hairs, several of the stylists live on land in trailers with horses and farms — a life I haven’t lived, but I love watching how they show up for each other. A young woman from that community recently had a beautiful, healthy, baby boy and said, “I can’t.  I don’t have what it takes.” Instead of turning away, the community has been passing this baby from trailer to trailer, squeezing, rocking, and loving him ( literally fighting over who gets him next for how long) while they attempt to resolve — without calling the state.

I listened thoughtfully to some judgment about the mom’s choices — still running around, hanging with friends, getting tattoos, hair appointments, living like someone her age — and I don’t see this as a tragedy. Like why would be better for her to keep the baby while feeling miserable and unfit to care for him.  

Observing these people rocking and squeezing and holding the baby passing him around just an abundance of nurturing and soothing love.  It makes me ache – like- if only my female progenitor had made that kind of radically honest decision for me – Just saying – I don’t have what it takes. I can’t deal with her. She’s too much. But I guess the way she spun it was not that she didn’t have what it takes, but that I should be reduced to a more manageable size. And she openly invited any and all others to reduce and diminish me.

Watching these folks rallying around this child feels like witnessing something generous and right.

I find myself feeling more hopeful for that child than for those of us who grew up in seemingly intact families—where abusers were quietly protected, and vulnerable children had nowhere safe to go. There’s a quiet sorrow in a life where the appearance of wholeness masks real harm.

And somehow, that structure—so polished on the outside—is still seen as more honorable. It reminds me of how society often treats marriage: as if it’s more respectable to have several failed marriages than none at all, or better to be unhappily married than contentedly divorced or never married. I’m not sure when appearance began to outweigh well-being, but I can’t help wondering why.

Triangulation and Psychological Splitting

What happens when alignment with one parent supports the rejection of the other?
What I’m experiencing with my son doesn’t feel like a sudden break. It feels like the outcome of a slow, sanctioned erosion of my role. His father—and other family members—modeled and rewarded a kind of contempt toward me that taught him early:

  • my emotions and sensitivity are proof of defect and unworthiness (“You know how she is”),
  • my authority is optional,
  • my love is disposable.

That’s not passive alienation. That’s generational gaslighting. Parents, under the guise of protecting their children, shape entire worldviews around control, compliance, and the rejection of any voice that doesn’t mirror their own. 

So no, my son didn’t come to this view of me on his own. It was programming. “Disregard your mother”  was consistently modelled communicated in a variety of both overt and insidious ways, for years. 

And to see me differently now—to meet me with kindness or curiosity—he’d have to question not just his father, but the framework which keeps him feeling strong, certain, safe. That’s a terrifying thing to do when you’ve been taught that closeness only comes through control, and that love is something you protect by picking the winning side.

Text image titled “GASLIGHTING” listing common signs of gaslighting: confusion and word salad, invalidation of feelings, denial of words and events, belittling, opposing statements, withholding love and affection, diverting focus, calling you ‘crazy,’ blaming for actions, silent treatment, not letting you speak, false accusations, making you question memory, rescripting stories, compulsive lying.

The Moment I Go Off Script

When pain makes it impossible to stay in my role,
It’s as if I’ve tripped an invisible wire—
and it unleashes a silent detonation beneath the surface, warning:
Forget your place—and pay.
“Who do you think you are? You, get back here.”
And:
“Fuck you. No one wants you anyway—for all of the obvious reasons.”

When hatchet like detachment fails to reel me back in,
they go for blame.
And when accusations fail to provoke defense—
as a last resort, there will be an inquiry.

Not the kind that says:
Will you please share with me what’s going on with you?
Will you please help me understand how we got here and what is needed?
No.
Not that kind.

This version of inquiry —
Aims to appear calm and interested.
At its core, it’s a tactic, on the heels of messaging which was anything but curious, interested, and desiring connection.

Aggression, masked as confusion.
And beneath it all:
You may join or seperate when and how I say.

Bait Posing as Dialogue

After having chosen to pile on top of the exisitng wound- silence, dismissal and blame, this last ditch frustrated effort at inquiry for “understanding” doesn’t land as care or genuine interest, even.
It lands like bait. As a first resort, yes. but now…

The Q&A does not move us together as equals, toward repair.
The questions appear aimed at proving or disproving.

It is not about working toward a shared understanding of what happened,
but whether I can recall it flawlessly. Literally no interest or effort given to the fact that I am hurt, in pain. Only righteous interrogation.

When my memory falters under the weight of emotional pain, the focus doesn’t move gently in the direction of understanding, repair, or reconnection.
It turns—deliberately—toward building a case against me, rather than making things right between us.

“If I can’t control how you relate to me, I’ll control how others see you.”
Dismiss. Diminish. Reframe.
Whatever it takes to keep the system intact—
to protect the illusion of goodness, the performance of perfection,
Not just to avoid accountability—
but to preserve control, and the story where they are infallible.

Key Takeaway: Where there is an investment in rightness, blame, discrediting, or defending, there’s no path to healing.

Black and white image with the quote: “If you define me by my wounds, you will never have to confront your weapon.” The background is blurred, evoking introspection and emotional distance.

Pain- Well Earned or Imagined

The Distortion:

“If you’re hurting, it’s because you’re weak or defective—not because I hurt you.”

So when someone like this does cause harm:

  • They don’t see themselves as responsible.
  • They explain your pain as evidence that you’re fundamentally flawed.
  • And your reaction (tears, anger, collapse, retreat) only confirms that view.

The Logic Loop That Protects Their Conscience:

  1. “Struggle = weakness.”

    If you’re suffering, it’s not because life is hard or you were mistreated—it’s because you’re not strong enough.
  2. “Causing struggle doesn’t matter if the person deserves it.”

    If they can position you as fundamentally broken, sensitive, or “too much,” then they can disown any guilt for harming you.
  3. “My ease = evidence of my superiority.”

    Their relative calm, luck, or detachment isn’t coincidence—it’s used to prove that they’re better, more evolved, or more capable.
  4. “I’m justified in distancing or controlling you.”

    Because you are now the ‘problem,’ they get to treat you with disdain, control, or neglect—and still feel righteous or morally clean.

Why This Is So Devastating:

  • You can’t access care from them through vulnerability—it triggers contempt.
  • If you try to explain or defend yourself, they just gather more data to reinforce the narrative of your defectiveness.
  • They may cause a collapse, then point to the collapse as proof they were right to do so.
  • Your suffering doesn’t call them into compassion—it becomes their alibi.

A Pattern I’ve Been Working to Name

Some people cause actual harm—not just discomfort, but real harm—and then step back, noting the fallout from a distance. When the hurt surfaces, they label the person in pain as too sensitive, unstable, or difficult. The distress gets rebranded—not as a response to injury, but as evidence that the wounded one was already flawed.

It’s a calculated move: shake the ground beneath someone, then point to their struggle to stand as proof they were never steady to begin with.

Because for some, appearing indisputably right and unshakably strong sits at the very top of the priority list. That image must be protected—no matter what. Their will, their ego, their narrative must remain intact, even if it costs someone else their dignity, safety, or reality.

And when someone stumbles in the aftermath, it doesn’t inspire care or repair. It affirms the story they need to believe: that the suffering isn’t the result of harm—it’s proof that the person deserved it.

It’s not just avoidance. It’s a system. One designed to preserve power and control, even if it means rewriting harm as hysteria, and injury as evidence of weakness.

And Here’s the Twist:

So, they’ve built this whole self-protection strategy around being untouchable. So to acknowledge your pain as valid would mean:

  • Admitting they may have done harm.
  • Accepting that they too are vulnerable.
  • Letting go of control.

And that’s intolerable for them.

A marionette-style person cuts their own puppet strings, representing emotional liberation from narcissistic control and toxic family dynamics.

No Going Back

What Is Emotional Colonization?

Emotional colonization happens when one person (or a system) assumes ownership over another’s emotional reality. It’s not just control—it’s the rewriting, minimizing, or overtaking of your internal world in order to uphold their comfort, authority, or image. It’s a demand that your feelings, boundaries, and truth revolve around their needs, their interpretations, their definitions of what is acceptable.

Much like territorial colonization, this is a form of invasion and domination—but instead of land, it’s your psyche, your autonomy, your nervous system and internal landscape being overridden.

Signs of Emotional Colonization

My pain is tolerated only if it doesn’t implicate them, their behavior, or their sense of entitlement.

My needs are reframed as threats, manipulation, or instability.

I am labeled “difficult,” “too sensitive, demanding,” or “unstable” for simply speaking my truth.

Naming harm/upset or asking for repair is treated as betrayal or aggression.

And my refusal to participate in it—without resorting to war or submission—is radical.

Refusing emotional colonization consistently results in rupture– because I withdrew consent to a system that required my emotional servitude. To those who depend on that system, our sovereignty feels like betrayal. But it isn’t.

It’s recovery. It’s reclamation.
It’s the long, painful return to self-governance—where my needs, limits, and truths exist without needing someone else’s permission.

Calm but not compliant? I’m cold.
Expressing pain without attack? I’m needy and manipulative.
Boundaries without hostility? I’ve “cut them off.”

This is the pattern:
My truth is pathologized.
My pain is punished.
And the story of what happened gets rewritten—not as harm I endured, but as drama I created.

These systems are ancient.
They show up in families, in intimate partnerships, in institutions.
They are built on unilateral authority—where one person’s comfort, control, and image outweigh everything else.

To that system, my middle path—what I call the third way—is intolerable.
I’m no longer collapsing to maintain proximity.
No longer calcifying in resentment.
I’m choosing not to participate in something that only functions if I diminish myself.

This isn’t appeasement.
It’s not severance.
It’s integrity.
It’s truth.
It’s refusal.

Why It Hurts

When I step away from emotional colonization, I’m not rejecting connection.
I’m inviting real connection—where all people matter, where honesty doesn’t threaten love.

But emotional colonizers don’t want mutuality.
They would rather wage a war where anything goes—distortion, blame, accusation, silence—
than engage in conflict where we each arrive as equals with shared intention.

That’s why this choice is costly.
Not because I was unkind, but because I stopped consenting.
Not because I burned a bridge, but because I stopped building it alone.

And yes, it may be recast as abandonment.
By those who confuse reverence and compliance with love.
By those who need someone to play the role that doesn’t challenge the unspoken rules.

Once I stopped agreeing to any version of that script or role—once I stopped collapsing to avoid banishment and anhillation—something shifted. It wasn’t just distance or withdrawal. It felt as if my struggle became a kind of confirmation for them. Like, “See? This is what happens when you stop being who we need you to be.” There was this not so quiet “serves you right” energy. Not always loud or obvious, but present. A subtle satisfaction in my hardship. As if my pain proved their point. As if my struggle restored the power dynamic they believed they were owed.

So, I’m not playing that part again.

I remain open to honesty.
To dignity.
To repair.

And when someone steps toward me with truth and tenderness?
I’ll recognize it.

I may not yet fully know, first hand, what true, mutual and safe connection looks like—but I’ve come to clearly recognize what it’s not.

Quote image that reads: “But true peace does not exist until there is justice, restoration, forgiveness. Peacemaking doesn’t mean passivity. It is the act of interrupting injustice without mirroring injustice, the act of disarming evil without destroying the evildoer, the act of finding a third way that is neither fight nor flight but the careful, arduous pursuit of reconciliation and justice. It is about a revolution of love that is big enough to set both the oppressed and the oppressors free.”

Neither Fight Nor Flight, But Love

After nearly a year, I’ve finally found effective and comprehensive care. It’s been time-consuming, soul-depleting, and expensive. As the physical pain eased, my mind began to unravel. The fog—and the medications—became their own kind of suffering.
I broke. Not just from the pain, but from the hopelessness of trying to live in a body that wouldn’t cooperate and a mind that couldn’t find steady ground.
And now, in this forced halt—slowed all the way down—I’ve had no choice but to sit with everything. The dynamics in my relationships. The patterns that undo me. It’s all coming into focus.
My part. My role. The way I keep choosing what feels familiar—people who echo something old. The part I learned to play in my family, then in friendships, in marriage, and heartbreakingly, with one of my sons.
By the time I recognize the pattern and gather enough clarity to speak, the narrative is often already in place: Sensitive. Unstable. Hard to help. What sounds like concern is often a preemptive smear.
These dynamics rarely begin with overt conflict. They begin when something painful is named—something subtle, minimizing, or diminishing. The response isn’t curiosity or care—it’s defensiveness, spin, image protection. The shift is swift: discredit the voice, reframe the need as dysfunction.
The behaviors aren’t loud. They show up as subtle dismissals, inconsistent presence, or disregard for clearly expressed boundaries. And when a response comes—with emotion, clarity, or even a quiet limit—that becomes the issue. The original wound is erased. The reaction becomes the offense.
Those shaped by narcissistic defenses would rather launch a war—where cruelty, chaos, and control dominate—than engage in a conflict that demands equality, vulnerability, and mutual respect. True dialogue feels threatening, because it requires accountability—the one thing they work hardest to avoid.
Over time, the emotional toll accumulates. But the public narrative flips: You’re too intense. Too reactive. This is why people leave.
It creates a structure where responsibility is dodged, and harm gets reframed as hypersensitivity. Distance, gossip, and exclusion become acceptable—even necessary.
Even the moment of disengagement gets rewritten. Not as a response to injury, but as overreaction. Refusing to move on. Stirring drama. Always upset about something.
Pain is allowed—so long as it’s quiet, private, and implicates no one. Or at least no one who considers themselves always right and above reproach. The moment pain is named plainly—or a need is expressed without apology—it’s met with punishment. Labeled as instability. Cast as betrayal.
This time, I stayed with myself.
I didn’t retaliate. I didn’t escalate. I didn’t vanish. I said what was true—not to wound, not to win—but because it was mine to name.
There was coldness. I chose not to mirror it. I didn’t explain it away or argue with it. I let it be what it was. And I let my response reflect who I am—not what the system demanded I be.
I was accused of the very behavior being used against me. That’s not irony. That’s the playbook: distort, accuse, withdraw.
Still—I didn’t collapse. I didn’t abandon myself. I remained grounded. I spoke truthfully, with care. That’s the third way.
Therapy is helping me see: the goal isn’t to perfect the art of leaving quietly. It’s to choose relationships where safety, mutual respect, and connection matter more than dominance or control.
For most of my life, I believed there were only two ways out: banishment or retreat. Now I can see a third

Conflict is not the enemy of connection. Avoidance is.” against a minimalist background. The quote highlights emotional intimacy, trauma healing, and healthy communication in relationships.

Stonewalling Breaks Me

Stonewalling breaks me. I don’t bounce back from it. But I’ve repeatedly and predictably returned for more. Hopefully, for the last time.

The silent treatment and banishment were the standard responses to any need, limit, boundary, preference, or discomfort I directly expressed—first in my family, then in nearly all of my relationships.

To request consideration was labeled and dismissed as being difficult. Who tf did I think I was? The consequence was silence. Banishment.

But I do not seek control over others.  Just consideration.  Collaboration. 

I do though, consistently tether myself to those who believe their needs, desires, and comfort matter more than mine—more than anyone’s. 

And perhaps, for the less sensitive (neuro-typical and untraumatized), with more resilience—it’s less of a problem..

But, for me, it’s not less of a problem.

I will not readily surrender to anyone who is actively unwilling to support my wellness, peace, or comfort.

The same people who require a presentation of ease and happiness —refused to be influenced in any way that might support my comfort or peace. Their message was clear: be happy on their terms, or leave. Let go, or be dragged—those were the only options.

I can’t ignore the pattern: being discarded by people who believe some people matter more than others—who resort to stonewalling and triangulation when things get hard. But I see now that pattern reflects the kinds of people I’ve been drawn to—what’s familiar, what I was raised on, not—the kind of person I am or what I deserve.

It’s what they do. Some ride it out as if it’s no problem and learn to accept this.  I’m not one of those people.  My most recent relationship began as a D/s dynamic. I was intentionally seeking to submit to a trusted man—someone who would find deep satisfaction and inspiration in prioritizing my needs, desires, and limits, while holding the control to lead as he wished. I still desire this kind of intentional, structured connection—rooted in trust, and a shared vision.

I’m someone who will probably always seek a deeper understanding of conflict, apology, and repair. The books below have been especially meaningful to me on that path.

– On Repentance and Repair by Danya Ruttenberg

– The Book of Forgiving by Desmond Tutu

– Why Won’t You Apologize? by Harriet Lerner

My hope now is to stop choosing people who must always right, never sorry, and determined to get their way at any cost—people stuck in binary thinking and zero-sum dynamics, where one must win and the other must lose.

I want to win with the people I love, not over them.

My deep need to engage honestly—to acknowledge and work through the mess—won’t align with those who need others to shrink, be wrong, or give in so they can feel right, in control, or above it all. I’m learning that real connection cannot be built on that kind of imbalance.

A woman sits alone in a dimly lit room, facing away, symbolizing emotional disconnection and the pain of being stonewalled in a relationship.

Drawn to the Closed Door

I’ve come to understand something about myself, and it’s both painful and clarifying:

I gravitate toward people who use silence as a weapon. Stonewalling—cold, controlled, absolute silence—is a dynamic I know intimately. It’s the language of withdrawal I’ve been trained to translate as love.

Even now, with every resource and insight and therapy under my belt, the discard silence doesn’t hurt any less. I know it’s not love. Not the wolesome sustaining and sustainable safe kind of love.

I know the kind of closeness I long for—deep, mutual, and safe—is only possible with someone who meets conflict with curiosity, courage, and a genuine desire to understand, de-escalate, and reconnect. Someone who can both hear and express hard truths with love.

Stonewalling says so many fucked up things without saying a single word:

  • You’re not worth responding to.
  • Your pain doesn’t move me.
  • I’ll withhold presence until you behave the way I want.
  • I am in control. You are not.

It’s psychological starvation. It’s abandonment dressed up as “calm.” I must stop trying to decode someone else’s refusal to show up. I know that in addition to being deeply wounded, I’m kind, funny, generous, caring, playful, intense, hard-working, full of integrity—all of it. I’m so many good things. Being stonewalled and discarded by people who do that to others says nothing about me—except that it’s what I’ve been conditioned to expect. Kind and evolved people simply don’t behave that way.