Holding My Heart & My Boundaries

To be completely vulnerable, I think I’ve been sitting with a quiet mix of confusion, hurt, and anger when it comes to certain parts of my family. Growing up as a Christian, I was taught to lead with love, forgiveness, and understanding — and I genuinely try to. But lately, it’s been difficult to reconcile the faith I carry with the very real feelings I have about the lack of support I’ve been experiencing.

I think what bothers me the most is that I am aware — deeply aware — of my feelings, other people’s feelings, and the weight of my own actions. I’m always checking myself, always trying to make sure I’m showing up gently and intentionally. But that awareness doesn’t erase the sting of being contacted only when someone wants an update on what I’m doing with my life — whether I’m traveling, losing weight, or making changes that have been good for my mental health — yet not receiving simple check-ins like, “How are you really doing?” or “Do you need anything?”

It isn’t all family. It’s just some. But it cuts deeper because it’s the same family my grandmother poured into, supported, and loved without hesitation. Maybe that’s why it feels so heavy. Part of me wants to distance myself to protect my peace, but another part of me recognizes that family, even in its imperfections, is woven into the core of who I am. That tug-of-war has been exhausting.

Recently, I had to go clean out my grandmother’s storage unit — the one holding pieces of her home, her clothes, her knickknacks, the little things she touched daily. Walking into that space was hard. It felt like stepping back into moments I wasn’t ready to release. But at the same time, it was strangely comforting. There was a sense of closure, a gentle whisper that it was okay to keep moving forward.

Packing her clothes, I kept thinking about how they will help someone else, how another woman might slip into one of her blouses not knowing the warmth and wisdom it once held. In a way, it feels like she’s still spreading love, still covering people just like she covered us — and that brings me peace. It reminds me that grief isn’t just pain; sometimes it’s a sacred passing of blessings forward.

I’m still figuring out how to navigate family, boundaries, and the expectations I secretly hold but rarely admit out loud. I’m still trying to understand how to give grace without abandoning myself. Healing hasn’t been a straight line, but moments like clearing out her things show me that I’m learning, growing, and letting myself feel everything without running from it.

And maybe… that’s enough for right now.

Authentically,

Tam