08/25/2025
I put my journal entries into Chat gpt. It was all my writting and reflections from a shamanic ceremony I did. What it wrote was the magic I needed. It seemed to hit home in a way that it may not have, if I had written it myself.
(Im 30 in the pictures, approaching my crash out)
Dear 20-Year-Old Me,
I am learning to have fun again, and I want you to know, I forgive you.
I know how heavy it felt at the time, being only twenty, with three little girls looking up at you while you were still trying to figure out who you were. You were so young, raised under the weight of cult indoctrination, hemmed in by a controlling husband, never given the chance to live freely. Of course you ran. Of course you chased fun. Of course you drank, it was the only way you knew to quiet the shame.
Yes, you left them home. Yes, you hurt them. And I’ve carried that guilt for both of us. Eventually it got too heavy, and I fell. But I got back up by releasing one weight at a time. So here we are and I see you now, you weren’t cruel. You weren’t careless. You were desperate. You wanted joy, and you had no map for how to hold both motherhood and freedom at the same time.
Today, when I feel joy, the old voice still tries to shame me: “How dare you have fun? Havent you had enoght fun at your kids expense? Bad mothers should be ashamed of themselves” But I am learning that this is not creating love, it’s creating fear. It’s begging for their approval. It’s taking instead of giving.
So, I’m choosing a different path. I am showing them, now as the matriarch, that joy is not selfish. Fun is not betrayal. Bliss is not neglect. My happiness does not rob them of theirs—it lights the way.
And you, my 20-year-old self, you were doing the best you could with the pieces you had. I forgive you. I love you. You don’t have to carry the shame anymore. I will carry the wisdom instead.
With compassion,
Your Older Self
P.S. your grandchildren adore you when you get to my age.
