By Amber Self Image Magazine
I was raised in contradiction. Be yourself, but don’t stand out. Tell the truth, but protect the powerful. I learned early that silence was currency—and I spent it often. I lied for influential family members so they could escape consequences. I witnessed abuse in every form. And I thought it was normal.
It wasn’t.
I didn’t know what a healthy relationship looked like. I thought everyone had an agenda. That love was earned through sacrifice. That care was conditional. But I knew I cared. I wanted to be the safe space I never had. I believed that if I loved people enough, they’d love me back.
What I got instead was gaslighting, bruises, and attempts on my life.
Still, I didn’t raise my boundaries. I didn’t harden my heart. I thought endurance was love. I thought softness was strength. I thought survival was enough.
Before I turned 25, I had lived through more trauma than most people could name. And then came the engagement. I knew something was wrong. I gave him a chance to be honest. I told him we could face anything—if he just told me the truth. He looked me in the eye and lied.
I didn’t know he was battling addiction. I didn’t know that his silence wasn’t just fear—it was a symptom. When I finally confronted him, I was met with deflection. I begged for clarity. I thought he was cheating. In a way, he was—with alcohol.
The betrayal wasn’t just the substance. It was the dishonesty. The wasted time. The emotional labor I poured into a future he wasn’t ready to build. My past trauma collided with the present, and I broke. I blacked out. I hurt him. I didn’t know I was capable of that. I didn’t want to be.
The police were called. The relationship ended. And I was left with a question that haunted me: Why am I like this?
I sought help. Psychiatry. Therapy. Medication. I didn’t want my reaction to become my identity. I didn’t want my trauma to be my legacy. I wanted to apologize—not to win him back, but to give him the closure I wish someone had given me.
His parents wouldn’t let me speak to him. I understood. But I still carry the words I never got to say: I’m sorry. I take full responsibility. You deserved honesty too.
I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I lost my world. And in many ways, I did. But that loss became the catapult. It forced me to confront the truth I’d buried for years: I was not okay. And I didn’t want to stay that way.
I became the talk of the town. The workplace whispers. The fear. The judgment. I went to court. Faced the verdict. I didn’t have much support—but the support I had was everything. I was granted a plea deal. A second chance. And I didn’t waste it.
I completed anger management. Probation. I changed my actions. I owned my story. I let my heart speak louder than my past. Eventually, people stopped talking. They started seeing me—not the mistake I made, but the person I chose to become.
So where does the quiet rebellion come in?
It came at 28, when I decided to take my life into my own hands. I got a psych evaluation. I finally had answers. A direction. I’ve been in therapy ever since. I’ve made strides. I’m no longer afraid of who I might become—I know who I am.
I set boundaries. Even with family. Especially with family. Because you cannot heal in the environment that created your wounds.
People from my past wouldn’t recognize me now. And that’s okay. I chose to heal. I chose to learn. I chose to do what most people won’t.
I rebelled against the norm.
We are not the truama we were bonded with, we have a choice.
🔚 Breaking the Cycle
Healing isn’t just personal—it’s ancestral. When I chose to confront my trauma, I wasn’t just saving myself. I was breaking a pattern that had been passed down like heirlooms no one asked for. Silence. Shame. Survival masquerading as love.
I realized that generational curses aren’t always loud. Sometimes they’re the quiet expectations to stay small. To protect dysfunction. To normalize pain. And sometimes, the rebellion isn’t in shouting—but in choosing peace, choosing therapy, choosing boundaries.
I’ve learned that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means refusing to repeat. It means saying, “This ends with me.”
I no longer carry what was never mine to hold. I no longer shrink to fit into spaces that demand my silence. I no longer confuse endurance with love.
This is my quiet rebellion.
This is my legacy.
This is how I break the curse.
Self Image 