Rewriting Our Stories

I’ve always felt that life has a way of guiding us toward the darkest places within ourselves that we most need to explore, even when it hurts. For me, that journey has been about coming to terms with what many of us know as the “mother wound,” the deep, often invisible pain that can flow from one generation to the next, like honey slowly dripping down the bark of the tree of life.

Writing my song Bittersweet Honey was a revelation, a moment when I began to see that the pain I’ve been carrying isn’t just mine. It is the weight of unspoken sorrows, unresolved conflicts, and unhealed wounds that have been passed down from my mother, and likely from her mother before her. It is a pain that is familiar, a pain that I sometimes struggle to define, but always feel somewhere deep inside me.

Growing up, I sensed a longing in my mother that I couldn’t quite name, a sense of frustration that would sometimes burst forth in anger or retreat into silence. As a child, I internalized those moments, believing that somehow I was to blame, or that I wasn’t enough to heal her sadness. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to understand that my mother was navigating her own uncharted waters, shaped by her own experiences and her own wounds. And yet, like so many of us, she did her best with the tools she had, often struggling silently against the tide of her own pain.

The realization of this mother wound has been like looking into a mirror that reflects both the past and the present. It has shown me where my sadness, anger, and self-doubt have roots that reach deeper than my own experiences. It has also revealed the ways I have unconsciously repeated patterns, and the ways I have resisted, sometimes clumsily and sometimes gracefully, to rewrite my story.

But understanding is only the beginning. The real work is in integration, in taking those pieces of sadness, anger, and pain, and finding a way to make them whole. This is where compassion comes in, not just for my mother, but for myself too. It is about seeing the little girl inside me who felt she had to be perfect to be loved, and telling her it is okay to be flawed, to be human. It is about recognizing that my mother was also once a little girl with dreams, fears, and wounds of her own.

I have found myself on a path of learning to hold my sadness, my anger, and my pain not as enemies but as parts of me that need tenderness, attention, and love. I am learning to see my mother not only as the person who gave birth to me, but as a woman who was shaped by her own battles and her own generational traumas. I am learning to soften my heart, to see her in myself, and to extend that same compassion inward.

Bittersweet Honey is a song born from this realization. It is about the slow drip of trauma, the sticky residue of pain that clings to us through generations even when we try so hard to get it right. It is about the courage it takes to acknowledge these wounds, to feel them fully, and to strive for healing. It is about the messy, beautiful journey of becoming whole.

“Bittersweet honey, running through our veins Same old hurt, we can’t explain But if we dig deep, past the shame We might just find, we’re not to blame.”

“Bittersweet honey, running through our veins” speaks to the idea that trauma and pain are not abstract concepts; they are deeply ingrained in us, flowing like blood, connecting us to our past and to our ancestors. This bittersweet honey symbolizes the complex mix of love and pain we inherit, sweet memories tinged with sorrow, affection marred by unhealed wounds.

“Same old hurt, we can’t explain” reflects the often indescribable nature of inherited pain. It is the familiar ache we feel without fully understanding its origin, the subconscious patterns and emotions that resurface despite our efforts to suppress or change them. It is the cycle that repeats itself, generation after generation, woven into the human experience.

“But if we dig deep, past the shame” suggests that true healing requires us to go further than awareness. We must face the shame and guilt that often accompany our pain, the feelings that we are somehow responsible or flawed. It is a call to move beyond the silence and self-blame that keep us bound.

“We might just find, we’re not to blame” is the moment of release. It offers the hope that if we truly explore our wounds, we will see that the pain we carry is not solely ours. It is not our fault. This realization allows us to begin the process of forgiveness, for ourselves and for those who came before us, and to finally break the cycle of pain.

If you are reading this and it resonates, I want you to know that you are not alone. Healing the mother wound, or any deep-rooted wound, is not a straight path. It is full of twists and turns, moments of clarity, and days of doubt. But every step toward understanding, every moment of integrating those fractured parts, is a step toward freedom. It is a step toward breaking the cycle, toward finding peace in your own skin, and toward offering a brighter legacy to the generations that come after you.

The wounds we carry are not our fault, but the healing is our responsibility. I often wish that someone before me in my lineage had chosen this path, had found the courage to face these pains and begin untangling the threads of trauma that have woven through our lives. But I see now that there is no time more perfect than the present moment. Perhaps, for reasons beyond my understanding, it was always meant to be me.

Maybe my place in the universe is to be the one who decides to mend these inherited wrongs. It is a gift I give myself, a way to honor my journey and the struggles of those who came before me. It is also a gift to those around me and those who will come after, paving the way for a future that is lighter, freer, and more loving.

That is why I have chosen to release both this blog post and my song Bittersweet Honey on Wednesday, the 18th. I was born on the 18th of December, and as a Life Path Number 9, I have come to see the connections between these numbers and my journey. The number 9, tied to endings, compassion, and spiritual purpose, aligns perfectly with this moment in the 9th month of the year. It feels like a cosmic nudge, reminding me that now is the time to close old cycles, to heal generational wounds, and to step fully into a new chapter. This is not just another release; it is an offering of love, understanding, and transformation woven into the fabric of my life’s path.

Releasing this song feels like being born anew, stepping into a fresh chapter with a gift in my hands. I hope that in sharing it, it reaches you in a way that brings comfort, understanding, or even just a moment of reflection. It is my way of saying, “I am here with you on this journey,” and hoping that it speaks to you wherever you are on your path.

So let us keep walking forward with patience, with grace, and with the understanding that every step, no matter how small, leads us toward a more compassionate world. Each act of healing creates ripples, touching the past, shaping the present, and illuminating the way ahead.