I Chose to Break the Cycle

When I was a little girl, people would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up.

 

My answer was always the same.

 

"I want to have an orphanage, an animal shelter, and a home for the elderly."

 

People would smile because they thought it was simply a child's imagination.

 

But it wasn't.

 

Even as a little girl, I couldn't stand the thought of anyone feeling forgotten, abandoned, or alone.

 

I didn't want children to believe they had been left behind.

 

I didn't want elderly people to spend their final years wondering if anyone still cared.

 

I didn't want animals waiting for someone who was never coming back.

 

I wanted every living being to know they mattered.

 

Looking back now, I think I know why.

 

I don't believe people are born hateful, cruel, or abusive.

 

I believe we are all born innocent.

 

Life shapes us in ways we don't always understand.

 

The experiences we have, the words we hear, and the love—or lack of it—we receive all leave their mark.

 

Many people who hurt others were once hurting children themselves. They learned fear before they learned peace. They learned survival before they learned love.

 

That doesn't excuse the harm they cause. We are all responsible for the choices we make.

 

But it has helped me understand that pain often has a story behind it.

 

Even as a child, something inside me knew what I was living wasn't normal.

 

Being mentally abused wasn't normal.

 

Being physically abused wasn't normal.

 

Living in fear wasn't normal.

 

I didn't have the words to explain it then, but I knew I never wanted another child to feel the way I felt.

 

People often ask me why I didn't become bitter.

 

Why didn't I continue the cycle?

 

Why didn't I become someone who hurt others because I had been hurt?

 

The truth is...

 

I don't know.

 

Sometimes I wonder if God placed something different in my heart before I was even old enough to understand it.

 

For as long as I can remember, people have found their way to me.

 

They tell me about their pain.

 

Their fears.

 

Their heartbreak.

 

And I listen.

 

Not because I have all the answers.

 

But because I know what it feels like to wish someone would simply listen.

 

I've always felt things deeply.

 

Sometimes I can sense when someone is hurting before they ever say a word.

 

For years I wondered why.

 

Today, I believe my deepest wounds taught me compassion.

 

Looking back, I think there was one moment that revealed who I already was.

 

We had a horse that no one could calm.

 

Every time my dad tried to ride him, it became a battle.

 

But I never saw a bad horse.

 

I saw fear.

 

I would walk into the corral, look him in the eyes, and softly tell him,

 

"It's okay."

 

"You're safe."

 

Somehow, he would calm down.

 

Then my dad could approach him.

 

When I was hurting, I would sit beside him and cry.

 

He would walk over, rest his head on my shoulder, and stay with me.

 

He never judged me.

 

He never hurt me.

 

Somehow, he always knew.

 

Years later,I realized...

 

I wasn't just comforting him.

 

I was giving another living being the safety I wished someone had given me.

Maybe that's what I've spent my life trying to create safe places for others-because I know what it feels to need one.

 

One promise I made to myself never changed.

 

I was never going to raise my children the way I had been raised.

 

I was going to break the cycle.

 

I wanted my children to know they were loved, to understand kindness, to learn compassion, and to express their emotions without fear.

 

Because growing up, I often heard,

 

"Children are seen, not heard."

 

We didn't talk about feelings.

 

We didn't say, "I love you."

 

We didn't know how to express what was in our hearts.

 

When I became a mother, that changed.

 

Loving my children came naturally.

 

Holding them.

 

Hugging them.

 

Kissing them.

 

Telling them I loved them.

 

I wanted them to hear those words every day because I knew how much I had needed them.

 

Breaking a generational cycle is harder than people realize.

 

The wounds we carry don't disappear simply because we become parents.

 

There were moments when fear took over.

 

Moments when I reacted because I was afraid.

 

Not because of my children...

 

But because I was terrified of failing them.

 

Every time that happened, I would go back to them.

 

I would sit beside them.

 

I would apologize.

 

I would tell them,

 

"It wasn't you."

 

"It was me."

 

"I was afraid."

 

"I was disappointed in myself because I wanted to do better."

 

As I was learning to love myself...

 

I was also learning how to love them in healthier ways.

 

I wanted them to know that adults make mistakes too.

 

But love means taking responsibility.

 

Love means apologizing.

 

Love means trying again.

 

There was one moment with my daughter that I will never forget.

 

One day, she tried to protect me.

 

To anyone else, it might have looked sweet.

 

But my heart broke.

 

Because I wasn't looking at my daughter.

 

I was looking at myself.

 

I saw the little girl who believed it was her job to protect everyone else.

 

After I had calmed down, I sat beside her and said,

 

"I know you were trying to help me, and I know your heart was in the right place."

 

"But you don't have to protect me."

 

"I'm the adult."

 

"It is my responsibility to protect you, not the other way around."

 

Then I told her something that was difficult for me to admit.

 

"The reason I became so emotional is because I saw myself in you."

 

"I was afraid that, despite everything I had worked so hard to change, some of my pain had still found its way to you."

 

Children should never feel responsible for protecting the adults they love.

 

They deserve to simply be children.

 

That day reminded me that healing isn't about never making mistakes.

 

It's about recognizing them.

 

Talking about them.

 

Repairing them.

 

And choosing a different path.

 

One day, a friend witnessed something that I didn't even realize anyone else noticed.

 

My children came to see me at work.

 

The moment they saw me, they ran straight toward me with the biggest smiles on their faces.

 

My friend smiled and said,

 

"Your children look at you like you're Christmas morning."

 

Those words meant more than he could have known. After 10 years of raising my children as a single mother, through all the doubts, sacrifices, and prayers, I realized that love had reached them. That was one of the greatest confirmations I could have received.

 

Those word have stayed with me ever since.

 

I carry them deep in my heart.

 

Because in that moment, I realized that maybe...

 

Just maybe...

 

I was doing something right.

 

Not because I was a perfect mother.

 

Far from it.

 

I made mistakes.

 

I questioned myself.

 

I cried.

 

I learned.

 

I apologized.

 

But despite all of that...

 

My children still ran toward me.

 

Not away from me.

 

To me, that meant everything.

 

It reminded me that children don't need perfect parents.

 

They need parents who make them feel safe.

 

Parents who choose love, even while they are still healing themselves.

 

 

For a long time, I believed I could only love my children that openly.

 

I didn't think I would ever be able to love another adult that way.

 

Then I met my last husband.

 

For seven years, he gave me something I had never experienced before.

 

He made me feel safe enough to be myself.

 

Safe enough to laugh.

 

To cry.

 

To express what I felt instead of hiding it.

 

For the first time in my life, I loved someone outside of my children.

 

I learned that my heart wasn't incapable of loving.

 

It had simply never been given permission to speak.

 

Although that chapter of my life ended, I will always be grateful for what it taught me.

 

Love is not weakness.

 

Love is courage.

 

Love is vulnerability.

 

Love is choosing to let someone see your heart.

 

 

---

 

Today...

 

I don't have an orphanage.

 

I don't have an animal shelter.

 

I don't have a home for the elderly.

 

Not yet.

 

But maybe I had been looking at my dream the wrong way.

 

Maybe those places don't begin with buildings.

 

Maybe they begin with one person choosing to listen.

 

One person choosing kindness.

 

One person choosing compassion.

 

One person choosing to break the cycle.

 

People sometimes tell me that I have a way of knowing when someone is hurting.

 

That people naturally open up to me.

 

That I make them feel safe enough to tell me their story.

 

I don't think that's because I have all the answers.

 

I think it's because I know what it feels like to wish someone would simply listen.

 

For years, I thought my dreams had never come true. Then one day I realized... maybe it already had. It just didn't look the way I imagined as a little girl.

 

Every blog I write...

 

Every story I share...

 

Every person who visits this space...

 

Is another piece of that little girl's dream becoming reality.

 

Maybe SuzyAnna is the safe place I dreamed of building all those years ago.

 

Maybe it's the shelter.

 

Maybe it's the safe place I dreamed of building all those years ago.

 

A place where people feel seen.

 

Heard.

 

Loved.

 

And reminded that they are never alone.

 

If you're reading this today, I hope you remember this:

 

Your past may explain your story, but it does not have to write your future.

 

You can choose kindness.

 

You can choose healing.

 

You can choose forgiveness.

 

You can choose to break the cycle.

 

I did.

 

And if I can...

 

I believe you can too.

 

 

"The little girl who dreamed of building safe places is still here. The only difference is that today, she's building them one story at a time."