You can love someone and still speak the truth about them. That’s really the heart of why I started this blog as a teenager. To share my experiences, especially the tough ones. I’ve written about so many of my struggles here, but I always hesitated when it came to talking about the ones rooted in my own home. Maybe this helps someone? Maybe someone feels they’re not the only one experiencing this or maybe someone who needs therapy finally gets it because of this post.

A few times during arguments, my then fiancé (now husband) pointed out that I have a hard time apologizing, even when I’m clearly in the wrong. Naturally, as you would expect, that pissed me off. But one day, after a pretty minor misunderstanding (that was very much my fault), I felt this strange pain in my chest at the thought of saying sorry. I couldn’t understand why taking accountability felt so heavy. And that’s where the introspection began.

I started noticing other things too. Like how I hesitated to express gratitude or affection for the little things. Marcello (my husband) would thank me when I did the dishes, but I’d never think to do the same because, in my head, “it’s his house too” (that’s what I was told when I swept the floor or picked up after my father). He told me I was beautiful every single day, and yet I couldn’t say out loud how handsome he looked, even though I felt it. When his parents thanked or praised me, I’d feel uncomfortable, almost awkward. And this was despite the fact that I felt deeply loved and safe in our relationship.

Still, something was off inside me. His close relationship with his family often made me miss mine. And yet, I couldn’t get through a single conversation with my parents or brother without getting angry and hanging up.

The day we got engaged, we went to Marcello’s parents and shared the news. They screamed with joy, hugged us, popped a bottle open, we celebrated like a family. Later that evening, I called my parents, expecting to share the same excitement. Instead, my father was furious that I didn’t video call him during the actual proposal. The call went downhill fast. I ended up crying on what should’ve been one of the happiest days of my life. They wouldn’t even congratulate me. That’s when I knew something had to change. I was done pretending things were okay. I either had to walk away completely or work through the pain. With our wedding eight months away, I signed up for therapy.

Through therapy I realized I struggled to apologize because I was never apologized to at home. The first time Marcello’s parents said “sorry” to me over something, I froze, I didn’t know how to respond. I’m thirty, getting married, and yet so much of my emotional wiring was shaped by a lack of accountability in my own household.

Growing up, every argument ended with me apologizing, sometimes even while kneeling at the altar. But when my parents were at fault and I tried to express myself, I was met with, “What do you want? You want your father to beg you? Would that make you happy?”

Once, my mom accused me of doing drugs. No evidence, just gossip. When I confronted her, she said, “If you didn’t take drugs, then let’s just leave it.” As if that was not something Insane to just say to another person. Another time, she called me a prostitute because I started solo traveling on weekends after I began working. When I was 20, my dad slapped me across the face at a wedding. for simply spending time with a distant cousin he deemed “inappropriate.” His reaction wasn’t really about me; it was rooted in an old family wound, his sister had once eloped with her first cousin, and he projected that fear onto me.

There was the night my mom threatened to hang herself after a fight with my dad. And my dad came to me saying he might drop dead that night because she’d raised his blood pressure too high. I stayed up all night, checking on both of them while they slept in separate rooms with open doors. Of course I got no apology for what I endured that night and every other night that they fought this way until I left the country.

Compliments didn’t come easy in our household either. I don’t remember being called beautiful as a teen. There’s a faint memory of my dad calling me Sundari when I was a toddler but it faded quickly. By the time I was a skinny, awkward teenager, he’d only tell me to “cover up those bones” before I could go out with him. And yet he loved compliments, he’d dress up and show off his outfits, and I’d always tell him he looked great. When I tried to do the same, he’d say I should learn to dress for my body type. I never knew how good I could look or if I was good looking at all because I was always forced to buy clothes a size too big. I didn’t like my reflection in those clothes. That started to shift after I turned eighteen of course, but the damage to my self-image had already taken root.

With all this new understanding from therapy, things started to click. I realized where my emotional blocks came from why I couldn’t say sorry, why I struggled to praise others, why I carried so much resentment towards my parents.

Writing an open letter to my parents but never sending it, could help, my therapist said. I had to let go of this, I had to forgive them without an apology, to be able to look at them as my parents again. Before I Became a Wife, I Had to Heal the Daughter in Me.

And that’s what I did.

I’m only publishing it now as if narrated to someone else who might relate. Some relationships are worth repairing.
Seek help if you need it 🤍