By Rebekah Smith
I broke the chain—and it broke me open.
I left the place I was raised, the generational patterns I inherited, the expectations that never fit quite right. I longed for something different, something freer. I wanted space to breathe, to grow, to become. And I found it, in a way, out here in California. I built a life with more beauty, more choice, more authenticity than I was ever allowed back home. But I also found something else: guilt, grief, and a kind of loneliness that only comes when the price of freedom is disconnection.
When you’re the one who leaves, who changes, who says, This ends with me, you don’t just separate from dysfunction—you separate from the people still in it. The people you love.
I wonder sometimes if my family thinks I outgrew them. Maybe I did. Maybe I had to. But it’s painful to feel so far away from the people whose blood runs through me. To want connection with the same people who made me feel like I had to choose between belonging and being well.
Mental illness runs through my family like an underground river—visible only when the ground gives way. I’m not the only one struggling, but I’ve become the most obvious. Maybe because I talk about it. Maybe because I’ve tried to heal out loud. And in doing so, I’ve been made to feel like the sick one, the dramatic one, the problem—when all I’ve ever tried to be is the brave one.
I don’t know how to hold both truths: that I love my mother and that I cannot understand her silence after I told her I didn’t want to live anymore. I don’t believe she doesn’t care. But what else can I believe when my pain is met with silence?
She raised me to be better—or maybe I made myself better in spite of what I was given. I didn’t stay quiet about injustice. I didn’t excuse harmful men. I didn’t raise children in the same cycles. I didn’t find comfort in religion, and I didn’t vote the way she did. But I did find a deep love for humanity—especially for the misfits, the outsiders, the ones like me.
Maybe she thinks I’m judging her. Maybe I am. Maybe I just can’t understand how you can vote for someone who reminds you of your abuser. Maybe I’m tired of pretending that “family” should mean staying silent about harm.
Sometimes I think about the life I left behind—the mobile home, the quiet, the simplicity. I used to scoff at it, tell myself I’d never end up “knocked up or knocked out.” But I get it now. I get the appeal of a small life, a predictable life. Some days, the life I’ve built out here feels overwhelming. And sometimes, I wonder if I would’ve cracked sooner had I stayed.
If I’d had children, maybe this ache would make more sense. Maybe I’d see my own childhood through the lens of what I could give to someone else. Maybe I’d feel less like a daughter still waiting to be loved.
But I’m here. In therapy. Doing the work. Trying to give myself the love I needed then. Trying to parent the child inside me with softness, with care.
Life is hard—but it’s also fast. And so, I endure. I love myself. I value the peace and honesty I’ve fought for. I’ve built a life that reflects who I really am. And even with all the heartache, I’d do it again. I’d do it all over.
Because this ride—this messy, complicated, painful, beautiful ride—has been mine.