From Self-Abandonment to Self-Compassion: Embracing the Not-Okay

I hadn’t seen my therapist in a really long time, but recently, I decided to go back. When she asked why I returned, I told her I was ready—to be fully honest with myself, and with her. In the past, I often held things back—not out of fear necessarily, but because I was taught to move on quickly.

Growing up, we were encouraged to let things go as soon as they happened. We’d act like nothing was wrong, forgive instantly, and move forward. It created a home environment that felt very peaceful. There were no visible grudges, no loud resentment—just what I understood then as pure love. And as a child, that made me feel safe.

But over the years, as I began to explore myself more deeply, I started to realize that peace and love were only part of the story. I became more honest about how I was actually feeling. While everything may have appeared calm on the surface, there were deeper layers I hadn’t fully acknowledged.

Over the past few years, I found myself slowly pulling back—not out of disconnection, but from a desire to understand what was stirring within me. I needed that space.

In that quiet, I began to feel anger rising—specifically toward my mother. There was sadness too: a deep ache from never quite reaching her, and a heaviness from being dismissed so often. I felt angry every time she spoke over me, every time her words carried criticism or negativity, every time she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see me. She was so focused on fixing the problem that she couldn’t just be present with me. There was rarely space for me to express myself, let alone feel heard.

The truth is, I never really sat with those feelings. I may have felt angry or sad in the moment, but shortly after, I’d act like nothing had happened. I’d move on quickly, brush it off, tell myself it wasn’t a big deal. But that pattern of pretending built up quietly. Each time it happened, something deeper in me stirred—something unresolved and unspoken.

I remember one moment clearly. I went off on her while I was in the middle of processing all of it. It brought me right back to being a teenage girl—slamming the door, collapsing into tears, whispering to myself: I just want to be heard. I just want her to be my best friend. I kept trying. I kept hoping that one day she’d meet me there—that one day she’d truly see me.

But she carried her own wounds: anger from years of self-abandonment and a quiet, buried resentment from never having fully stood up for herself. And all of that unprocessed pain got projected onto us.

In trying to keep the peace, I ended up doing the same thing to myself. At the root of my pain, I discovered the self-abandonment I’d been living with for years. I had become so practiced at pushing through, staying kind, and appearing “okay,” that I had never given myself permission to truly feel what was going on inside.

In one session, my therapist said something that stuck with me: grief also deserves respect.

Over the years, I’d spent time sitting with my anger. It was incredibly uncomfortable—like a wildfire moving through my body. More recently, I’ve been sitting with sadness and grief. That has felt different—more still, heavy, and unmotivating. It’s not an easy space to be in. I never really knew how to stay with these emotions. Or maybe I didn’t want to. But I’m learning. I’m learning to sit with each emotion as it comes.

Around this time, I was also taking mimosa seed as part of a liver cleanse. And since the liver is associated with processing anger, it felt like a lot was surfacing—especially in my dreams. I started dreaming about people from my past—those I’d had emotional partings with. (I prefer that phrasing over “falling outs”; it feels gentler and more compassionate to both sides.)

Through those dreams, I began to see the situations more clearly. Not necessarily to reopen them, but to understand them—and to let the feelings tied to them move through.

It’s kind of wild—my whole life, I knew how to be okay. I was good at it. I could brush things off, shift into love and kindness almost effortlessly. That was my default. My survival skill.

But for the first time, I’m learning what it means not to be okay—and to be okay with that. To sit in discomfort without trying to fix it or sugarcoat it. To let myself feel what needs to be felt without rushing toward peace.

And ironically, that’s led me to a deeper kind of peace—one that’s not built on avoidance, but on honesty.

After sitting with things over the years, my relationship with my mother—and with both of my parents—has transformed in meaningful ways. I wake up every day thinking I have a really great life, and if I had never been born, I wouldn’t have been able to experience life on Earth. For that, I’m deeply grateful to them. I now have a profound appreciation for simply being born, for the fact that they chose to have children, and for the foundation of love and security they gave us, in the best way they knew how.

They, too, were human—playing the role of parents while carrying their own stories, wounds, and dreams. I shared the part of my journey where I faced deep feelings of abandonment, but I want to be clear: that was not the only part of her.

There was also a part of my mother who loved us fiercely, who understood us in the ways she could, and who poured herself into nurturing the family and holding us together—side by side with my father. What they built together—the love and service they offered not just to us but to the broader community—is something I hold deep respect for. They are truly kind, generous people.

What I’ve come to understand is that it’s so important not to abandon yourself. When you stop running and sit with your own heart, when you create space for your pain without judgment, you begin to cultivate a deeper compassion—for yourself, and naturally, for others.

Not all relationships will work out or stay close. And that’s okay. But you can still wish the best for them from afar—with a heart full of appreciation for the role they played, the lessons they brought, and the love that existed, even if it looked imperfect.

Ultimately, learning to stay present with your true feelings—even when it’s uncomfortable—is the greatest gift you can give yourself. It’s in that honest presence that healing begins and genuine peace takes root.