Confronting The Hidden Shadows: How to Heal in the Darkness

The Weight of Loneliness, Even After Healing: A Call to Embrace Our Truth, Imperfections and Personal Faith

I wrote this earlier today when I was in the thick of it—when loneliness felt like a weight I couldn’t shake, even after all the healing, all the work I’ve done to reach a place of inner peace. The truth is, even after we’ve healed from our past wounds, sometimes the feelings we thought we left behind creep back in. And when they do, it can feel like you’re right back where you started, questioning everything.

Yes, I still feel this way sometimes. I still feel the loneliness, the frustration, the uncertainty about where I fit in. I still wonder if I’m doing enough, if I’m showing up in the right ways, or if I’m just existing on the sidelines while life happens around me.

But here’s the thing I’ve come to realize through reflection: I do still have things I’m working on within myself. Healing doesn’t mean you’re done—it just means you’ve come far enough to see the work you still have to do.

Take today, for example. I’m sitting here, not yet showered, knowing I could choose to leave the house and be in public, to connect with people, but instead, I’m holding back. Why? Because deep down, I’m tired. I’m tired of putting forth the effort when I’m not sure if it’s the right effort. I’m tired of not knowing when to show up, or if my presence is even wanted. That’s where the frustration sets in. When you’re putting yourself out there, doing the work, and you still don’t know if it’s making any difference.

This is the part that’s hard to admit: sometimes, it’s easier to retreat. It’s easier to stay in the safety of solitude because stepping out into the world, trying to connect, trying to belong, feels overwhelming. And the truth is, I’m not always sure if I want to keep trying. It’s not that I don’t care—it’s that the effort itself feels exhausting when you don’t know if it’s leading anywhere.

But here’s the reflection I’ve been sitting with: in these moments of doubt, I have to remind myself that I have a role to play in this too. I have to own my actions, or sometimes, my inactions. If I’m feeling disconnected, if I’m feeling like my presence doesn’t matter, how much of that is coming from me? How often do I hold myself back from showing up because I’m afraid I won’t be welcomed? How often do I stop myself from reaching out because I don’t want to face the possibility of rejection?

It’s uncomfortable to admit, but it’s part of the truth. I can’t just sit here and say that loneliness happens to me. I have to acknowledge that sometimes, I’m contributing to it. By not showing up, by not putting myself out there, by not trying when I feel like it’s pointless, I create some of the isolation I feel.

There’s a certain kind of personal accountability that comes with this realization. It’s not easy to sit with, but it’s necessary. I can’t control how other people respond to me, but I can control how I show up. I can’t control whether or not I’m always welcomed, but I can make the effort to be present anyway. It’s not about being perfect or having all the answers—it’s about recognizing that I have the power to change my experience, even if it’s just a little bit at a time.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of effort. What does it mean to put in the right effort? Honestly, I don’t think there’s a clear answer. Sometimes we put in the effort and it leads nowhere. Sometimes we don’t see the impact we’re making because we’re too focused on immediate results. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that effort itself—just the act of showing up—matters. It may not always lead to the outcome we want, but it’s still a step forward.

And that’s the mindset I’m trying to embrace now: the understanding that even if it feels pointless, even if it feels exhausting, showing up for myself and for others is still worth it. It’s not always easy, and I don’t always get it right. Sometimes, I do retreat, I do isolate. But when I catch myself doing that, I try to remind myself that I have a choice. I can choose to stay in the safety of solitude, or I can take a risk, put myself out there, and see what happens.

This is where mindful awareness comes in. I’m learning to be more mindful of my actions and how they contribute to the way I feel. When I’m feeling lonely or disconnected, I’m starting to ask myself, What role am I playing in this? Am I reaching out to others? Am I making an effort to be present? Or am I holding back because I’m afraid of what might happen?

It’s not about blaming myself—it’s about understanding that I have more control than I sometimes give myself credit for. I can’t fix everything, and I can’t force connections where they don’t exist. But I can take responsibility for how I show up in the world. I can choose to put in the effort, even when it feels hard, even when I’m not sure if it will pay off.

So yes, I still feel the weight of loneliness sometimes. Even after all the healing, even after all the work I’ve done, those feelings still surface. But now, I’m trying to meet them with more compassion. I’m trying to see them as part of the process, not as proof that I’ve failed.

If you’re feeling this too, if you’re sitting with that weight, wondering if it’s ever going to get better, I want you to know that you’re not alone. But I also want to challenge you to reflect on your own role in the story. How are you showing up? Are you giving yourself the chance to connect, or are you retreating out of fear? Are you putting in the effort, even when it feels hard, or are you holding back because you’re not sure it’s the “right” effort?

It’s okay to feel frustrated. It’s okay to feel tired. But don’t let that stop you from showing up. The truth is, you matter. Your presence matters. And the only way to truly embrace that is by taking action, even when it feels uncertain.

We all have our days when it feels easier to stay hidden, to withdraw. But the beauty of life is that we have the choice, every day, to show up differently. To put in the effort. To take accountability for our part. And to remember that even in our solitude, we have the power to create the connections we crave.

The Pain of Trading Time for Money: When Solitude Feels Like the Only Reward

When I look back at my years working traditional jobs, it’s clear to me now that everything I did was for my kids. Every choice, every sacrifice, every long day at a job that didn’t fulfill me—it was all for them. I took the jobs I did not because they aligned with my passions, but because I had a family to support. I needed to keep a roof over our heads, food on the table, and give my children a sense of stability. I thought that was the right thing to do, and in many ways, it was.

It wasn’t about giving up my dreams—it was about doing what had to be done to create the best life possible for my kids. But in the process of showing up every day for my family, I found myself stuck in the grind, the never-ending cycle of trading my time for money. The constant pressure to work hard, get a raise, and then barely have enough time or energy left over to actually spend with the people I was doing it all for.

The jobs I held weren’t chosen out of love—they were chosen out of necessity. And each time I thought I was finally getting ahead, the rug would get pulled out from under me. Whether it was a layoff due to “corporate restructuring” or because I’d simply gotten too expensive for my position, I found myself back at square one more than once. It left me scrambling, worried not about my own dreams, but about how to keep supporting my children, how to make sure their needs were met.

It wasn’t just the loss of a job—it was the loss of security, the fear of not knowing when the next opportunity would come along, or if it would pay enough to keep us going. And through all of this, my kids remained at the center of my decisions. I didn’t resent them for it—not at all. I did what I had to do because I wanted the best for them, and I was willing to put myself through whatever it took to provide that.

But there’s another side to the story. Even while I was doing all of this for my kids, somewhere along the way, I began carving out something for myself too. I didn’t just give up on my dreams—I adapted them. I started my journey into online entrepreneurship not because I thought it would be easy, but because I knew I needed something different. Something that would allow me to support my family without losing myself in the process. I didn’t want my kids to see me as someone who was always struggling just to get by. I wanted to be an example of what it means to fight for something better.

Becoming an entrepreneur wasn’t an escape—it was a way to take back control. A way to show my children that even when life throws obstacles in your path, you can find another way forward. It wasn’t always smooth, and I didn’t have all the answers, but I knew that I couldn’t stay stuck in the system that was slowly draining me. I needed to create something that would benefit not just my children but myself as well.

And yet, even as I built my business, the solitude would creep in. There were times when it felt like all the effort I had put in over the years had led me to this quiet, lonely place. My children are grown now, living their own lives, and I sometimes wonder, What’s left for me? Did all those years of trading time for money leave me with anything of my own, or am I just sitting here, waiting for the next phase of life to begin?

That’s when the reflection kicks in. It’s easy to get stuck in the narrative that I sacrificed everything for my children. But the truth is, I didn’t lose myself in the process. I kept going. I started my own thing. Even when it felt overwhelming, even when I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, I kept showing up—for them and for me.

Now, when I look back on those years of working traditional jobs, I don’t feel regret. I did what I thought was right. I showed up for my kids in the way I knew how. But I also showed up for myself. I refused to let the grind define me, and that’s something I want my children to understand. Life isn’t about giving up on your dreams for someone else—it’s about finding a way to support the people you love while still holding onto the parts of yourself that matter.

So yes, the rat race was brutal, and yes, solitude can feel like the only reward at times. But that’s not where the story ends. I learned that I have the power to change the narrative. I can take what I’ve learned from the years of hard work and survival and use it to build something that reflects who I am now.

And if you’re in that same place—feeling stuck, feeling like you’re constantly sacrificing your time, your energy, and yourself for the people you love—I want you to know that it’s okay to feel that. It’s okay to be frustrated. But it’s also important to remember that you have more power than you realize. You can keep showing up for your family without losing yourself. You can find ways to pursue your dreams, even if they have to take a different shape than you imagined.

The truth is, I’m still figuring it out, just like you. I’m still balancing the needs of my family with my own desires, and I’m still learning how to show up for both. But every step forward is a step towards something better—something that honors both the people we love and the person we are becoming. And if I can do that, so can you.

When Our Loved Ones and Children Don’t See the Sacrifice

One of the hardest truths I’ve come to realize is that even when you think you’re doing everything you’re supposed to be doing, you don’t always get it right. I worked hard, put in the hours, and sacrificed time with my kids because I believed that’s what I had to do. I convinced myself that providing for them, making sure they had what they needed, was the most important thing. And to be honest, in many ways it was. But there’s a toll that comes with that kind of sacrifice, one that I didn’t fully understand until much later.

As children, they don’t see the countless hours you put in at work to pay the bills. They don’t understand the weight you carry, the stress, and the exhaustion that comes from juggling everything. They don’t realize that every decision you make is for them—at least that’s how it was for me. I made those decisions because I loved them, adored them, and wanted to give them the life they deserved. But no matter how much love and good intention is behind those choices, if their focus is on the things they feel you didn’t do for them, it can create a rift.

It’s hard to explain to your children, now adults themselves, that while you may not have been there as much as you wanted to be, your heart was always with them. You try to show them that they are the very thing you cherish most in this world, but sometimes, that message doesn’t get through. Instead, they might hold onto the times you weren’t there, the moments they felt overlooked, or the emotional distance they perceived while you were busy working and providing.

As much as I believed I was doing the right thing, I know now that I made mistakes. I wasn’t always present in the ways they might have needed me to be. The truth is, being a parent and trying to survive life in a positive way is a constant balancing act. None of us come with manuals. There’s no perfect guide to tell us how to navigate every moment, and no one has all the answers. The best any of us can do is make decisions based on the time, knowledge, and resources we have at that moment. That’s exactly what I did.

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to face the consequences when your children grow up and don’t see it that way. When their focus is only on what they perceive you didn’t do for them, it hurts. You find yourself stuck in these thoughts, wrestling with the idea that you did everything you could, yet feeling like it still wasn’t enough. The weight of their disappointment, even if it’s based on their own perceptions, is heavy. It can make you question every choice you made, every sacrifice, and wonder if you could have done more.

Could I have done more? Possibly. But I don’t think any of us, as parents, ever feel like we’ve done enough. Hindsight will always reveal things we missed or could have handled differently. It’s part of the learning process, part of being human. And as much as it sucks to admit, those mistakes are how we grow. They’re how we become better—not just as parents, but as individuals.

Yet the frustration comes from knowing that even though we did the best we could in the moment, our kids might not see that. It’s painful to realize that our intentions, no matter how pure, might not have landed the way we hoped. The times we were absent because we were working late to make sure they had everything they needed, they might see as abandonment. The times we were too exhausted to fully engage, they might interpret as us not caring.

It’s not that they don’t love us or appreciate what we did. But as they grow into their own lives, they start to develop their own narratives. And sometimes those narratives punish us for what they think we didn’t do right. It’s hard to accept that—even if everything we did was to provide a better life than what we had—our children’s perceptions of our actions might still be clouded by their unmet expectations or their own struggles.

As much as we want to be everything for our children, the reality is that we are imperfect. We’re human, flawed, and learning as we go. And sometimes the decisions we make, no matter how well-intentioned, lead to consequences we couldn’t foresee. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that the very sacrifices we made for their well-being might be the same things they hold against us.

But this is where personal accountability comes into play. We have to acknowledge that while we did our best, we weren’t perfect. And that’s okay. We made decisions based on the resources, time, and knowledge we had at the time, and we believed we were doing the right thing. The consequences, as painful as they might be, are part of the process of learning and growing—not just for us, but for our children as well.

The question now is, how do we move forward? How do we continue to show our children that we love them, that our actions were always rooted in wanting the best for them, while also taking responsibility for the ways we might have fallen short?

A Call to Reflection and Action: Embracing Faith and Understanding

It’s easy to feel lost in that pain, but the key to overcoming these dark feelings lies in recognizing that just as we were doing the best we could with the knowledge and resources we had at the time, so are they. Our children are on their own journey, learning and growing just like we did. It sucks—there’s no other way to put it—when they can’t see our side, but that’s part of life’s cycle. They may not yet have the perspective or the experience to understand why we made the choices we did. And that’s okay.

Here’s where the lesson lies: we have to learn to recognize and acknowledge their perceptions without losing ourselves in guilt or regret. We must have faith. Faith that, with time and growth, they might one day understand our love, our sacrifices, and our humanity. We can say to them, “I’m sorry. I did my best, and I hope someday you will understand.” And then, we have to let it be. Let go of the need for immediate reconciliation or validation and trust that they will continue to seek that bond, just as we continue to offer it.

This journey of self-reflection, accountability, and faith is at the core of what I explore in my book Untold Truths: Turning Trauma into Transformation. In it, I dive deep into the lessons I’ve learned about overcoming these dark feelings, the very feelings that used to keep me stuck. But now, through reflection and mindfulness, I’ve found ways to lift myself out of those emotional lows, recognizing the power of understanding and faith.

If you’re ready to take that next step and start healing from the burdens that weigh you down, if you want to learn how to navigate the complexities of relationships, especially with your children, and find peace in your heart, I invite you to read Untold Truths. This book isn’t just a story—it’s a guide for anyone who’s ever felt the sting of misunderstanding or the loneliness of not being seen for who they truly are.

Remember, the darkness doesn’t have to define you. There is a way forward. Start by taking that inventory, reflecting on the emotions and their causes, and then embrace the faith that things can get better. Let my story be a source of strength for you as you walk your own path to healing.