I never thought I’d have to lock my own bedroom door just to feel safe in my mother’s house. It’s not about being dramatic. It’s about breathing without someone barging in to check if I’m still under her thumb.
When I told her I just wanted space, she looked at me like I was speaking another language. She said, “Honey, I’ve been giving you space,” and I almost laughed. How do you give space when you’re standing in the middle of my room asking me what you’ve done wrong? Space isn’t physical feet between us — it’s respecting the invisible line that says I am my own person.
The barn door rope — to her, it was a statement. To me, it was for the dog. But she saw it as rebellion. Maybe she’s right, in a way. Not rebellion for rebellion’s sake, but rebellion against a life where I’m erased a little bit each day.
I see the games. The blocked doors. The book titled You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me left in my path. The unnecessary updates about her errands, like I should be keeping a ledger of her movements when she keeps none of mine. I see the double standards so clearly now it’s like someone cleaned the fog off the mirror.
My therapist warned me — she’s a full-blown narcissist, this will eat you alive. And here I am, in the middle of it, watching it happen in slow motion. Even my daughters don’t want to live here. That should tell me everything. I’ve always said, once I divorce my husband, I’ll divorce my mom too. And now that day feels less like a wish and more like a lifeline.
I’m counting the days. Locking my door. Storing my energy like a scarce resource. Because this is survival now — and survival isn’t pretty. But the thing about locks is they don’t just keep people out. They remind you there’s something inside worth protecting.
Where softness, self-awareness, and emotional healing are allowed to coexist. Through reflective writing, grounding rituals, and intentional beauty, Sparrow Trades offers gentle support for sensitive souls learning to reconnect with themselves.
