emotionally gone, physically here

PS: This is not a call for sympathy, and it is not an attack.

PSS: This is simply my truth.

My mom called me dirty—“wasikh” in Arabic. She told me to leave her house.

It’s not the first time.

Since I was a child, being told to leave became a pattern. Each time, I packed a bag. I believed her. I took her seriously.

But then she’d apologize. She’d tell me to stay.

And I always did—physically.

Emotionally, a piece of me left.

Every time she told me to leave, a piece of me left.

And no one ever asked if I got it back.

I recently learned something that hit harder than I expected:

Her mom—my grandmother—once called me that too.

She said it first.

My mom repeated it.

And in that moment, I realized the pain didn’t start with me.

It started before me—and it trickled down.

I used to promise myself I would never cry in front of my mom. I couldn’t give her that win. I couldn’t show her weakness.

If I showed pain, then she broke me.

So I smiled. I joked. I played nice.

But inside? I was cracked.

Confused. Broken. Confused again.

She birthed me—why couldn’t she love me?

Today, I cried in front of her.

I couldn’t help it.

The pain spilled over.

She called me undeserving of a home. She called me worthless.

And that hit differently.

Because how do you explain to people that your own mother doesn’t want you?

That half your DNA thinks you're nothing?

In that same moment, I watched my mom cry in front of her mother. I saw her break the way I’ve broken for years.

I felt bad for her.

And I hated that I did.

I comforted her.

Even though she’s the one who broke me.

Because she’s my mom. And because that’s what I do.

Even when I don’t have comfort to give.

Even when I don’t know how to forgive.

I saw the cycle. The words passed down. The pain passed down.

And it broke me more.

Because somehow—I was part of it now.

I played a role.

I didn’t mean to.

But I did.

I want to believe there’s still love left in me to give her.

But I’m not sure anymore.

I don’t know how to be enough.

I don’t know how to stop unintentionally hurting the people I love.

And I don’t know how to forgive the people who hurt me—especially when they’re the ones I’m supposed to run to for comfort.

But I do know this:

I don’t believe in silence.

I don’t believe in speaking out of anger either, but I won’t be silenced.

Not anymore.

No matter the outcome.

Because if you take enough pieces of someone, eventually there’s not enough left to pretend anymore.

Questions I’m still sitting with:

• How do you love someone who taught you love through pain?

• What happens when you’re ready to heal, but the person who hurt you isn’t?

• If the pain didn’t start with you, does it have to end with you?

• How do you comfort someone who never made space for your own hurt?

• How do you forgive someone who never asked to be forgiven?

• Can you love someone that never loved you right?