I wish my family had been different.
Breaking generational patterns: how I chose to end the cycle of dysfunction in my family.
.I come from a big family.
The kind that looks full from the outside — aunts, uncles, cousins, history, stories.
But I’ve learned that big doesn’t always mean close.
And family doesn’t always mean safe.
On my dad’s side, I had two people who felt like home — my grandparents. They were older than most. Slower. Softer. Intentional. They did everything for my brother and me. They showed up. They loved quietly but fiercely. They were what grandparents are supposed to be.
Even at 30, I still grieve that I didn’t get more time with them.
I was young. They were older. I didn’t understand how fragile time was. Now I do.
Time is cruel when you really sit with it. Every day is the clock moving forward. We assume there will be more holidays. More Sundays. More chances.
Then life humbles you.
Losing one of my best friends humbled me. Watching my daughter go through heart surgery humbled me. Sitting in hospital rooms realizing how quickly something can change — that shifts your perspective forever.
It makes you think about who showed up. Who protected you. Who didn’t.
My mom’s side of the family was different. As a child, I didn’t understand the tension between my mom and my aunt. I didn’t understand the fighting. I didn’t understand the slow fractures that would grow over time.
But I grew up. And I saw more than I wanted to.
I watched my mom try — for years. I watched her extend kindness that was not returned. Birthday cards. Text messages. Baby shower gifts. Invitations. Effort.
And I watched her get burned.
This isn’t blind defense because she’s my mother. I was a witness to much of it. I watched uncles speak to her in ways that chipped away at her confidence. I watched my aunt emotionally break her down. I watched my mom shrink into a child-like state at times — not because she was weak, but because she was exhausted from constantly fighting to be included, to be respected, to matter.
She wanted my brother and me to have that family unit. She kept trying for us.
Nothing changed.
There were grandparents who lived up the street from me my entire life and never made an effort to truly know me. Proximity without connection. Presence without involvement.
And I started to understand that a lot of what I was witnessing wasn’t random. It was generational. Old wounds bleeding into new relationships. Pride replacing accountability. Silence replacing healing.
Then I became a mother.
And something inside of me sharpened.
There was a moment — a comment made about my daughter when she was a baby, fresh out of heart surgery. A joke at her expense. And in that moment, everything became clear.
When you become a mother, your tolerance changes.
You can swallow disrespect toward yourself for years.
But the second it touches your child? The line becomes permanent.
That was the moment I understood that history does not equal access. Growing up together does not guarantee respect. And love does not mock vulnerability.
I’ve also learned that dysfunction doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes it looks like distance. Sometimes it looks like indifference.
In my husband’s family, the few who do have children choose not to maintain connection. I understand life gets busy. We’re all raising kids. We’re all working. We’re all juggling responsibilities.
But it gets old being the one blamed for the lack of contact. It gets old being the one expected to initiate. To plan. To show up. To reach out. To explain.
There’s always a reason. Always an excuse. Always a deflection.
And over time, it becomes clear when effort is one-sided.
It’s exhausting to always be the bridge. To always be the one extending connection. To always be the one making space.
And it’s even more exhausting when the same people who don’t show up always know when to take.
Between the family I was born into, the family I married into before, and even parts of the one I’m in now — I’ve seen how patterns repeat themselves in different packaging.
Different people. Same dynamics.
And I find myself asking — when does it end?
When does pride stop winning?
When does accountability begin?
When does someone decide that relationships require effort from both sides?
The truth is — cycles don’t end on their own.
They end when someone refuses to carry them forward.
I cannot rewrite the past. I cannot fix what previous generations refused to heal. I cannot force connection where there is no desire for one.
But I can protect my home.
I can decide what energy enters my children’s world. I can refuse to normalize disrespect. I can stop chasing relationships that only exist when it’s convenient.
I wish we had a full table — loud, unified, warm. I wish there were fewer fractured relationships and more humility. I wish love came without ego attached.
But wishing doesn’t heal people.
Boundaries do.
I still grieve what could have been. I still miss my grandparents in a way that aches. I still wish some things had been different.
But I am not powerless.
I am the bridge between what was and what will be.
And in my house, connection will be intentional.
Effort will be mutual.
Love will not come with conditions.
And emotional safety will not be negotiable.
The cycle ends here.
