On My Parents’ Anniversary

Today would have been my parents’ 67th wedding anniversary.

They married young; my mom had just turned 18, my dad was 21. A year later, my brother was born. Two and a half years after that, my twin brother and I arrived.

Lately, I’ve been sharing some reflections on my childhood, and there are more to come. I want to take a moment to say this clearly: however many painful or traumatic experiences I went through as a child, I’m not here to blame my parents.

When I write about childhood wounds, it’s not to accuse. It’s to understand. To heal. To offer a path for others who are learning how to live with what shaped them.

I believe it’s important to speak openly about our childhood experiences without constantly feeling the need to defend or condemn our parents. There are cases where abuse or neglect happened, and anger or blame is a completely natural, even necessary, response. I’ve felt that anger too.

But as I’ve sat with those feelings over the years, especially the younger parts of me who were so hurt, I began to see something else. My parents had their own wounds. Their own difficult childhoods. They were doing the best they could with what they had.

That doesn’t erase the pain. But it adds dimension. And it opens the door to something more tender: the possibility of healing.

So my point is simple: whatever you’ve been through, use it. Let it teach you about yourself. Let it open the door to your own becoming. Healing doesn’t mean rewriting the past. It means reclaiming your life from it.

It’s never too late to begin.

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