I want to begin with a memory that shaped the way I saw my mother—and myself—at a very young age. When I was five, I woke from a nap and walked in on my mother cheating with a man while my father was out. The moment she saw me, everything stopped and he quickly left. My mother told me something I couldn’t understand at that age, “he raped me”, and then she told me not to tell my father. When I cried—overwhelmed by fear and confusion—she yelled for me to stop crying or she would give me something to cry about. In that moment, I learned to swallow my feelings, stay quiet, and take care of her needs before my own.
A couple of hours later, the man returned, obviously drunk, pounding on the door. My mother and I pressed our weight against that door while she threatened to call the cops. I screamed at the man that he better not try to come in or he would be in big trouble, i meant to throw my toys at him.. After a few minutes that seemed like hours, he finally left. But In my five-year-old mind, a message took root: she needed protection, and I believed it was up to me to provide it. That night became one of my first core memories.
From then on, life became about her—managing her moods, avoiding her anger, bracing for the unpredictable. With her struggles and addictions, there was very little space for me to simply be a child. After the divorce, she often threatened to harm herself. Weeks would pass when she barely left her room, and I would check to make sure she was still alive. Other times she partied, and I would find her passed out in the driveway. Caring for my younger sibling also became my responsibility. I can still feel the weight of grocery bags on each handlebar during long bike rides home, food stamps in hand, doing my best to keep us fed.
My mother rarely took responsibility. She perfected the role of victim, manipulating those around her, and left me with a crushing belief: that my needs didn’t matter. I wasn’t her child—I was her caretaker, her therapist, her property. That rejection shaped me in ways I am still healing today.
Psychologist Dr. Lindsay C. Gibson gave me language for what so many of us lived. In Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents, she describes parents who cannot connect with their children on a deep emotional level. They may look functional from the outside—holding jobs, paying bills—but emotionally they are preoccupied with their own fears, impulses, and comfort. Instead of offering steady care, they pull their children into their inner storms.
Emotional immaturity can wear different faces. Some parents are ruled by their feelings—unpredictable, dramatic, quick to overwhelm. Others are driven—obsessed with achievement and appearances, but unable to slow down long enough to truly connect. Some are passive—avoiding responsibility and letting others carry the weight. And some are rejecting—irritated by their children’s needs and eager to push them away. Many of us knew a mix of these patterns under one roof. Hearing this language doesn’t excuse harm, but it helps explain why love felt conditional and chaos felt constant.
Here’s the part that cuts the deepest: as children, we assume it’s our fault. We believe we are too loud, too sensitive, too needy—if only we were better, calmer, smarter, more obedient, maybe then they’d love us consistently. That belief becomes a private prison we carry into adulthood. Gibson’s work is a roadmap out.
The effects don’t vanish when we leave home. They echo. They can sound like anxiety, panic, depression, hypervigilance, people-pleasing, trouble trusting, or a nagging sense that our needs are a burden. Many of us internalized the message that our job is to fix other people and keep the peace, even at the cost of ourselves. Some of us felt cut off from Source, from God, from love itself. But that isn’t the end of the story. Healing is possible.
Healing begins with recognition. If you grew up trying to calm your parent’s outbursts, absorb their moods, or manage their chaos, it wasn’t because something was wrong with you. It was because your parent was emotionally immature. Naming that truth doesn’t erase the past, but it releases you from the lie that you were the problem.
The next step is validation. Many of us were trained to distrust our feelings or minimize them. Healing means giving yourself permission to feel again—fear, anger, sadness, relief—and to trust what your body and heart are telling you. Your feelings are information. They point to what needs care.
Another step is letting go of the rescue fantasy. So many of us carried the hope that if we found the perfect words or behaved perfectly, we could finally unlock steady love from an unsteady parent. Gibson is clear: you cannot heal them. Your work is to reclaim your life force and direct it toward yourself. That isn’t abandonment; it’s alignment.
Then there are boundaries. For some, this means reducing contact with a parent who still harms you. For others, it means creating strong internal boundaries—choosing not to engage in familiar cycles, refusing to explain yourself endlessly, declining invitations into drama. Boundaries are not cruelty; they are protection and clarity. They create the safety you didn’t have.
Reparenting yourself is the ongoing practice that rebuilds what was missing. It looks like showing up for the younger you inside—offering comfort, care, structure, and gentleness. It sounds like self-talk that is steady and kind. It includes basics that are anything but basic: sleep, nourishment, movement, sunlight, creative play, and rest. It also includes reminding yourself—often—that your needs matter and are not an inconvenience.
Finding emotionally reliable people is part of the path. Seek out relationships where you don’t have to earn safety by shrinking. Choose people who can apologize, hold boundaries, and remain present when feelings rise. Family can be chosen. Community can be built.
If you grew up like I did, with a parent whose needs always came before yours, you are not alone. You were never too much, and you were never not enough. The care you needed and didn’t receive does not define your worth today. Your worth is inherent—and intact.
I think back to that five-year-old at the door, pushing with everything I had to keep danger out. Today, I honor that child by choosing different doors. I choose the door of truth over silence, boundaries over chaos, compassion over self-blame, and presence over performance. I choose to be the steady adult I needed then.
You can make those choices, too—one honest reflection, one boundary, one breath at a time. Healing doesn’t come from fixing your parent. Healing comes from learning to love and trust yourself, perhaps for the first time. The patterns you learned kept you safe once; now you get to learn new ones that let you live.
You’ve already begun.
🌿 Guided Intention & Grounding Ritual
- Prepare the Space
Find a quiet, safe spot where you won’t be disturbed. Dim the lights, silence your phone, and bring in items that feel sacred—like a candle, crystal, or journal. - Center the Breath
Close your eyes. Take three slow, deep breaths. Inhale through the nose, filling your belly with air. Exhale gently through the mouth, imagining any tension melting out of your body. - Speak the Intention
You can repeat these words, or adapt them in your own voice:
"I open this space with love and respect. I invite my higher self, my guides, and my soul family to walk with me. I release fear and welcome clarity, wisdom, and healing. May this journey connect me more deeply to Source, and remind me of the truth of who I am."
- Ground Into the Body
Place one hand on your heart and one on your stomach. Feel the rhythm of your breath. Remind yourself: I am safe. I am supported. I belong here. - Visualization for Protection & Connection
Imagine a gentle golden light forming a cocoon around your body, keeping you safe and open. See a silver thread connecting your heart up into the cosmos and down into the Earth. Feel yourself as the bridge—grounded below, open above. - Closing Anchor
Say out loud: "I am ready. I trust the unfolding. I walk this journey with love."
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