It wasn’t just difficult; it was emotionally disorienting. I was exhausted—tired of walking on eggshells, of being constantly manipulated, of questioning my own reality. More than anything, I was tired of carrying the guilt for wanting distance from someone who had caused so much harm. That pregnancy became a turning point. I needed to see clearly. I needed proof—not to convince anyone else, but to finally free myself from the quiet, constant pressure to fix what had always been broken.

Then one day, it happened. She started telling a story, laughing almost smugly as she remembered her own C-section. But it wasn’t just her experience she was talking about—it was the woman next to her, someone who had also undergone the same surgery. The woman next to her was in visible, excruciating pain—crying, struggling to walk, needing support to move. My mother recounted it like a joke. She rolled her eyes, calling the woman dramatic, weak, and annoying. She mocked her pain as if it were a performance, not real suffering. And something in me snapped. My voice went sharp, high-pitched. I was shaking, visibly disturbed. I wasn’t just angry—I was horrified. Horrified by her lack of empathy, by how cold and arrogant she was about another woman’s agony. And the worst part? She smirked. She watched me unravel with a quiet satisfaction, like she had finally found the exact nerve she’d been aiming for all along.

In that moment, I saw everything. I saw how she had controlled my emotions for years—not because she was right, but because I didn’t know how to protect myself from her.

That day, I didn’t just realize who she was. I realized I needed to understand my own emotional patterns if I ever wanted to stop reacting to her. I wasn’t just triggered, I was unprepared. I had no regulation, no awareness, just a raw, overwhelming feeling. That’s when it became clear: this wasn’t about her anymore. This was about me finally learning to take emotional responsibility, not blame, but ownership.

I had never been taught how to care for myself emotionally. I wasn’t just reactive—I was emotionally unaware. And that kind of self-neglect was costing me peace. It wasn’t enough to know she was unhealthy. I needed to be healthy enough not to be destroyed by her.

That’s where this journey began: not just to protect my energy, but to reclaim my emotional life. To respond instead of react. To feel without being consumed. To become emotionally safe, not just for my future child, but for myself.