Summary:
Leaning into vulnerability is a sign of courage.
The most important relationship you will ever have is the one you have with yourself.
You are strong and resilient.
Be gentle with yourself.
Imagine being loved the way you love yourself.
Laying in bed, I slowly open my eyes and adjust to the sunlight in the bedroom. I notice a subtle ache in the middle of my chest. My body feels drained and weak.
It’s back… my cPTSD brain. Is this how my life is going to be, forever?
I had just come back from a dream. A dream where I was back at the monastery, in the Buddha hall, praying and bowing along with my fellow friends and students.
The boys are segregated from the girls. We are too young to understand what it means to be separated from our parents, the opposite gender, and to be surrounded by strict routines and constant prayer.
Some of us, like me, have lost our relationship with our parents. Some of us children, like me, will never again have a healthy relationship with our mothers and fathers. Some parents, like mine, will not have the resilience to overcome separation and the courage to repair the damage.
Pulling myself away from the nightmare, I come back to my senses. My cPTSD brain has been acting up since earlier this week. The dull, aching, cooling, sensation in my brain is a reminder that it is back. I feel off. Every single time this happens to me, I am forced to remind myself to be gentle with myself. This is my normal. This is how it is.
Still laying down, I roll over to the other side of my bed and wipe the tears away from my eyes.
I silently wonder, will I be like this forever?
No. You’ve been through this a million times. You’ve learned resilience. You’ve learned courage. This is how you’ve healed yourself every single time.
I sit up and pull the blanket from my chest.
Yes. I’ve saved myself a million times.
I will keep doing it again and again.
Third time is a charm…
… but who’s keeping count?
The following story reflects the relationship I have with my father. While I understand that relationships are the basis of a child’s healthy foundation into adulthood, I must remind everyone that each individual has unique a life path. If you resonate with this story, I empathize with you. I write to heal and nourish my soul. It is my hope that this story inspires you to take action and be the most authentic and best version of yourself.
“Make a pact with yourself today to not be defined by your past. Sometimes the greatest thing to come out of all your hard work isn't what you get for it, but what you become for it. Shake things up today! Be You...Be Free...Share.”― Steve Maraboli, Life, the Truth, and Being Free
He is screaming at me.
“Why can’t you talk less? You talk way too much and it’s hurting my head,” yells Mr. Lee. “You talk and talk and talk and talk. No wonder Kathy doesn’t want to talk to you anymore. You just won’t stop talking. You’re giving me a headache!”
He huffs deeply into the phone from halfway around the world. Kathy is my cousin. He is my father. He is perturbed. I sob silently into the phone as if to protect him from my nuisance. This is only our 7th conversation since my attempt to repair our broken relationship.
Kathy, my sisterly cousin, abruptly stopped talking to me years ago. We had spent years bonding, creating a sense of family closeness I never had. We were there for one another when we both experienced emotionally trying times.
“Good morning, sunshine!” I’d text her. But one day, instead of her cheery response, she decided that she was just done. With me.
The comment he made about Kathy was a low blow. My father isn’t what I would call an abusive man. He is confused, I tell myself. He is wounded by his own trauma.
Our relationship slowly faded away after my brother and I were sent to live at the monastery. Not only was our family separated by distance, but we have been unable to carry any emotional connection for one another.
He is the person who gave birth to me.
But, he is not the person who raised me to be the woman I am today.
That was all me.
I am 5 years old, sitting on the floor of our home in Toronto, Canada. I am playing with my brother, having a grand old time piling building blocks on top of one another. We jibber-jabber at each other, laughing without a care in the world.
Off to the side, my dad stands at the doorway watching us play. He smiles slightly, keeping watch on our playtime.
“Can I put this here? Don’t touch it, okay?” he says.
I ask, “What is it?”
“It’s a tape recorder. I want to remember what you sound like. It’s recording so don’t touch it,” said my father.
My brother and I continue to play. Building blocks are man’s greatest invention. You can topple it over and rebuild it again and again.
He watches us silently, chuckling to himself. He is proud to have two children to call his own. He is happy.
My brother and I leave the tape recorder alone. But, we are curious.
"Play it again!” I ask.
My brother and I listen to the tape recorder. We hear ourselves chuckling with one another. How curious it is…
I am now 7 years old in school with my classmates. My feet can barely touch the ground; I love swinging them around. Today, we are learning how to write.
Mid-sentence, the teacher pauses and looks to the back of the room. She stops talking and smiles. What is going on? Why have we stopped? Everyone turns their gaze to the back of the classroom. I am the last one to turn my head.
Weird, I say to myself. Why is he here?
My dad walks to the front of the class with a big box. One by one, he pulls out happy meals for every one of my classmates.
What is going on?
Oh my god, it is my birthday. How fun!
He loved me.
At least he did back then.
I am pulled back into the present moment. I am here, today. Standing in my home with tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, I begin to feel a lump form in my throat. I sniffle and sob silently as if to prevent myself from disturbing anyone even though I am alone.
I replay the conversation in my head over and over again.
“You talk too much. Why can’t you talk less? You are interrupting my peace! Why can’t you learn to be quiet and just meditate?”
He has weaponized meditation, throwing it in my face to silence me.
Maybe I do talk too much. Do I?
I slowly remove my hands from my wet face and blink. My eyeballs feel tired and pained. I slowly glance around my home to snap myself back into reality. I focus on things that are here: the desk, the sofa, the rug, the curtains, a mug, my hands, my hair, my body. I tell myself that I am here in my own home. I look down at my feet and say to myself: I am here in my own body.
I am safe.
I am here.
I am protected.
I am okay.
I give myself a giant squeeze and remind myself that my father once loved me when I was a child. He loved it when I would talk to him. He loved answering my questions.
But, not anymore.
I think of all the work I’ve done on myself. Talk therapy, counseling, EMDR, meditation, medication, shadow work, self-awareness, self-love, compassion, and living with authenticity. I have done decades of inner work to heal my cPTSD brain.
It is not my fault.
I did not do this to myself.
I am whole.
I am loved.
I am great.
I am very self-conscious about how much I talk. It’s not fair that people judge me for who I am.
I stomp my feet on the ground to remind myself I am in the driver’s seat. This is my life. I am not a victim. I am in control. I love sharing. I still enjoy talking. I am, however, more mindful of how much I speak.
That feeling of being too much never goes away. I am afraid that if I open my mouth and talk, that someone is going to throw it in my face. It won’t be the first time…
We are complete strangers, my parents and I. My only wish is that it wasn’t so.
“I am willing to work on developing a relationship with you, but only if you meet me halfway,” I say to Mr. Lee. “There is so much that you don’t know about me. You don’t even know where I live.”
He is silent with his words. “Sonya Lee,” he sighs, “you should know how my heart feels. I know how your heart feels. That is all that matters. I don’t need to know where you live or what you’ve done.”
My shoulders tense up. My lungs fill up with angst. My heart races and aches for the father who once adored me.
“Do you really? Do you know how my heart feels from not having a father in my life? Can you tell me something about my life, like where I work, what I’ve accomplished, or where I’ve traveled? Do you even know who I am?”
The words slip out of my mouth.
He replies with words that I do not understand. “Those things are not important. What’s important is that I know your heart.”
He stands by his truth even though he has no idea who I am and what I’ve done to raise myself. He has no clue what it was like being me; growing up without both parents, locked away in a monastery, forced to deal with the trauma without any family support.
I fully accept that I can not change who he is.
I can, however, control what I do with my life, how I spend my time, how I survive and thrive.
What daughter would not want to have a strong, healthy, loving relationship with her father? What daughter would not want to see the glow in his eyes that is full of pride and joy?
I can not, however, spend the rest of my life pining over a man who can not see me for who I am. I must live on my own terms.
Even though my father does not appreciate how much I talk, I know without a doubt that this is my strength. It is my truth. It is my calling. Despite everything I have gone through…
I am still the one who likes to talk.
I hope that my truth will never change.
If you resonate with this story, I hope that you will take stock of how far you’ve come. Know that you are worthy of love. Trust that each experience offers a lesson of love and growth. The greatest love one can have in the world is the love you have for yourself.
Be unapologetically authentic. Don’t be afraid to lean into the darkness. The other side of darkness is light. And when in doubt, reach out to a friend or someone you trust for support.
Xo, Sonya
PS: My apologies if the writing is a little bit off this week. I am nursing my cPTSD brain and am working on healing. Thank you for understanding.






