“I’ll never know what it is like to grow closer to my mom. I’ll never understand that little girl’s feeling of never wanting to fail her dad.
I didn’t have relative grandparents to give my baby. My family tree has roots in trauma and my no-good genes — addiction.
If you noticed I sometimes have to wonder if someone truly loves me, please know, the ones who should have — couldn’t.
But the ones that DID, couldn’t have loved me better. That has always been enough for me, even in the trauma.
As I crusade my thirties with purpose and intent, I revisit the foundations that made me. Never having realized what was evolving.
One day the ones whom I longed for were no longer my mother, father, biological, or blood.
But rather the people who were not.
The sound of laughter booms when you have heard the grief of time alongside a lifetime with a friend.
Together we have laughed and cried, mended broken hearts, held hands, birthed babies, and grown professionally and personally.
Chosen friends know you for the parts of you that the rest of the world could not.
They know my pain. My story. My heart. My most elevated self, and my lowest. They walked me down the aisle when my father could not. They show up every time.
They love my kid the same way they love theirs, and equally, the same way they’ve always loved me.
For exactly who I am.
Not just for who my trauma made me.
Friends are the family you pick. To me, they’ve become nonbiological aunties to my baby, the best unpaid coworkers of my lifetime, and my built-in support team.
The friends I chose and kept loyally choosing, who always unequivocally loved me back.
I never had a family home, never had a tradition. Never a safe space or a vault.
But I always had them, and they were always becoming my family.”
This story was submitted to Love What Matters by Wallflower Writing at Detroit Moms. You can follow her journey on Instagram and her website. Submit your own story here and be sure to subscribe to our free email newsletter for our best stories, and YouTube for our best videos.
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