REFLECTION: Where do I still feel chained?

John 8:36 “Whom the Son sets free is free indeed.”

I still feel chained to my father in a way that scares me to admit out loud.

Not in a “close relationship” way. Not in a “we talk every day” way. But in a deep, unhealthy, nervous-system way.

It feels like if he dies, something in me dies too. Like I won’t know who I am anymore. Like my whole life has been built around him being there — even when he wasn’t actually present, loving, or safe. Just existing. Just alive.

I didn’t realize until I got older that what I have with him isn’t love. It’s a trauma bond. Its codependence dressed up as loyalty. It’s the result of a child learning that love had rules — and breaking those rules meant pain. I learned really young that if I wasn’t the “good daughter,” I wasn’t loved. If I talked back, I deserved what happened. If I made mistakes, I paid for them. If I needed comfort, I was weak. So, I became hyper-aware. Hyper-vigilant. Always watching. Always adjusting. Always trying to be whatever version of myself caused the least damage.

That mindset never left.

Even now, I feel chained because I still catch myself thinking I need him — even though I know he’s hurt me. Even though I know he shaped a lot of the damage I’ve spent years trying to undo. A part of me still believes I won’t survive without his existence anchoring mine. And that’s messed up to say. But it’s honest. I feel chained because he planted the belief that I can’t grow on my own. That I always need a man. If not him, then someone else. Someone to lean on. Someone to define me. Someone to keep me from falling apart. So, when I try to stand on my own — emotionally, spiritually, mentally — panic creeps in. Like I’m doing something wrong. Like independence is betrayal.

I feel chained in my faith, too.

I know Jesus is calling me into something deeper, something real, something healing — NEVER in my life have I walked into a Church the way I have this specific NON-CATHOLIC church and felt the presence of the Holy Spirit, like I did that day. But I stopped going, and you know why? Because of the chain of fear. I’m scared to fully step into it. Not because I don’t believe… but because I’m afraid of what choosing my relationship with God will cost me.

I’m afraid of judgment. Afraid of disappointing them (My Parents, Father and Stepmother). Afraid of being told I’m doing it wrong. Afraid of being told I’m depriving my children of the proper religious teachings. So, I hesitate. I second-guess. I stay halfway in instead of all in. And that hesitation feels like another chain wrapped around my chest, and all I can feel is the Lord tugging at it.

And then there’s the addiction piece — the one that never fully shuts up. I still feel chained to the idea that I’ll always be an addict. That no matter how much healing I do, sobriety is something I have to fight for every single day of my life. That one bad decision could undo years of progress. So, I monitor myself constantly. My thoughts. My emotions. My reactions. I’m terrified of becoming the person I used to be, or even worse, my parents.

Motherhood — and the Fear I Don’t Say Out Loud

Becoming a mother unlocked a whole new kind of chain, I wasn’t prepared for. It’s not just the fear of messing up — it’s the fear of becoming them. Every time I raise my voice, my stomach drops. Every time I get overstimulated, impatient, or exhausted, my brain immediately goes to: Here it is. This is how it starts. I’m terrified that something broken in me will leak into my kids without my permission.

I don’t just want to be better than my parents — I’m afraid of accidentally repeating them. Afraid that trauma lives in my reactions. Afraid that one bad moment will undo all the good ones. Afraid my kids will someday look back and remember fear instead of safety.

So, I overcorrect. I second-guess everything. I replay conversations in my head after bedtime. I’m constantly asking myself if I said the wrong thing, if I handled it wrong, if I damaged them in ways I won’t see until it’s too late. Motherhood didn’t heal my trauma and chains — it exposed it.

It brought all the unfinished business to the surface. All the wounds I thought I had buried, motherhood gave me the excuse to unbury them and face them. To allow myself the freedom of seeing, I’m not only parenting two tiny humans, but I’m also parenting while actively re-parenting myself.

Sometimes I feel chained to the belief that I have to be perfect to break the cycle. That one slip means I failed. That if my kids ever feel pain, it’s proof I didn’t heal enough. But the truth is… I am breaking the cycle — even on the days I feel like I’m barely holding it together.

I’m breaking it by apologizing. By choosing softness when my body wants to harden. By staying present instead of checking out. By loving them out loud in the ways I never experienced.

Still — the fear is there. Quiet. Constant. A reminder of where I came from and what I refuse to pass on.

And maybe that fear doesn’t mean I’m failing. Maybe it means I care enough to do it differently.

This part?

Terrified that the version of me who numbed everything is still in there somewhere, waiting for me to get weak. That constant self-policing is exhausting. And it doesn’t feel like freedom. It feels like another form of control.

The truth is — I don’t just feel chained to my past. I feel chained to the fear of repeating it. And maybe the hardest part to admit is this: I don’t know who I am without these chains yet.

They’ve been with me so long they feel like part of my identity. Letting them go feels like stepping into the dark without knowing what’s on the other side. But I’m starting to realize something uncomfortable and real:

Just because a chain feels familiar doesn’t mean it’s meant to stay. Just because I survived something doesn’t mean I have to keep living inside it. And just because I’m afraid doesn’t mean I’m not ready.

I’m not unchained yet. But I’m finally aware of what’s holding me. And that feels like the beginning of something real.

Closing Prayer

God, I don’t need You to fix everything overnight. I just need You to help me see what I’m still tied to — and why. Help me separate survival from identity. Help me stop confusing fear with loyalty. Help me believe that freedom won’t destroy me. I’m tired of living like I’m one mistake away from falling apart. Teach me how to trust You without feeling like I’m losing control. And when I’m not ready to let go yet… just stay with me anyway.

Amen.

XOXO, The Healing Wildflower