Apparently, whatever doesn’t kill you turns into an autoimmune disease in your 30s.

I used to downplay my trauma because I was gaslighted into believing that what I went through “wasn’t that bad.” I convinced myself that because other people had it worse, I had no right to struggle the way I did. But trauma is trauma. And living in survival mode for years changes you.

I grew up with older parents. When I was 16, my dad developed dementia. When I was 16, my dad developed dementia. Instead of just being a teenager, I slowly stepped into the role of caretaker. It wasn’t intentional on my mom’s part, but it became inevitable. There were moments like my dad accidentally putting a plastic teapot on the stove and almost burning the house down that made it impossible not to. At an age where most teenagers are focused on school, friends, and figuring themselves out, I was learning how quickly life could change and how much responsibility grief and illness could place on someone so young. 

And then to top it off, only three years later, both of my parents were diagnosed with cancer within the same month. They were in the hospital at the same time, and at 19 years old I genuinely thought I was going to become an orphan.

Around that same time, I simultaneously threw myself into a serious relationship because I was desperate to feel loved and safe. Instead, I spent almost 10 years in a relationship that kept me in constant fight-or-flight. There were good moments, but so much of my life revolved around someone else’s moods. Walking on eggshells became normal. Being cheated on became something I kept trying to forgive. I lost pieces of myself trying to hold everything together.

In the middle of all of that, my dad passed away. My mom went into remission from one cancer only to develop two more over the following years. Eventually, when I was 31 and pregnant, she passed from brain cancer. My brother and I had to go through two family homes filled with a lifetime of memories, clear them out, and put them on the market. I cannot even explain the emotional weight of doing that while carrying a child.

Then I became a stay-at-home mom. A role I do not regret for a second. But I also didn’t have the village I needed, and I didn’t create one either. So once again, I slipped into survival mode. Taking care of everyone else. Being the strong one. The dependable one. The point person for everyone’s needs while abandoning my own.

Eventually my body hit a wall.

This year, my body started screaming at me that something had to change. Deep down, I know my autoimmune issues are connected to years of emotional stress, chronic survival mode, and repeatedly choosing everyone else before myself.

So now I’m learning something that feels both foreign and necessary: I have to choose me too.

Not in a selfish way…in a healing way.

I have to honor the inner child who spent years feeling unsafe, overwhelmed, abandoned, and unseen. The little girl who learned that love meant overextending yourself. The woman who kept surviving but forgot how to truly live.

And honestly, this is why I believe spiritual healing matters so deeply.

Healing is not just love and light. It’s nervous system work. It’s shadow work. It’s grieving the versions of yourself that had to survive. It’s learning how to feel safe in your own body again. It’s reconnecting to yourself after years of disconnecting just to make it through.

People often think spirituality is about escaping pain, but I think true spiritual growth is about finally being willing to face it, process it, and alchemize it into something softer.

For me, this journey has been less about “becoming” someone new and more about returning to the person I was before survival mode convinced me I had to abandon myself to be loved.

So now, little by little, I’m choosing her.And maybe that’s where real healing begins.