Reclaiming Sovereignty: A Story of Love, Healing, and Wholeness

A deeply personal reflection into how love, pain, and resilience shaped my journey toward reclaiming a sense of sovereignty and finding wholeness in the beautiful, messy contradictions of being human

Carl Jung once asked, “What is the myth you are living?” For much of my life, I didn’t know how to answer that question. A myth? My life felt too fragmented, too filled with contradictions to ever make sense of as a single, cohesive story.

But as time passed, I began to notice patterns. These weren’t just random events—they were threads woven together by the same underlying themes: exile, wounding, healing, loyalty, love, and, finally, sovereignty. I began to see that my story wasn’t just something happening to me; it was a myth—a powerful one—shaping me into who I am. And yet, uncovering, understanding and reclaiming that myth hasn’t been easy.

Exile: The Secrets We Keep

My story begins, as many do, with secrets. I’ve always been someone people trust with their deepest truths—stories they’re too afraid or ashamed to tell anyone else.

For so much of my life, I felt trapped between my own values and the loyalty I owed to those who confided in me. There was a deep tension within me: I didn’t want to betray the people I loved by breaking their trust, but what happens when the secret itself feels unjust to keep? When silence feels like complicity? I wanted to protect their honor, their reputations—but at what cost?

This pattern of walking on eggshells—of tolerating implicit emotional abuse by people-pleasing and staying silent—has followed me throughout my life. I’m not talking about the everyday social niceties we all need to get by in the world. I’m talking about tolerating gaslighting and manipulative behavior, of making myself small to avoid conflict or criticism.

It started early, in childhood. Like so many children, I desperately needed survival, safety, and love from the people closest to me—my family. But what happens when the people who are supposed to protect you unintentionally cause harm? How does a child balance the need for survival, safety, and love with the pain of unmet emotional needs?

For me, the wounds weren’t physical—they were subtle but deeply felt: a childhood shaped by tension, the echoes of words that cut deeply, and moments of love that alternated with distance. These patterns left me holding guilt that wasn’t mine to carry, confusion from dynamics I couldn’t name at the time, and a longing for safety I struggled to find. While each of these experiences left a mark, they also taught me to hold complexity, to seek healing, and to reclaim a sense of sovereignty over my inner world.

And yet, I loved my parents because they were my parents. They were the ones I was supposed to trust. And so I made excuses for them, overlooked the pain, and told myself that if I could just be better, quieter, more perfect, they might love me the way I needed them to.

I know now that this wasn’t my fault. It’s a survival instinct—an unbreakable thread that keeps a child tied to their caregivers, even in the face of neglect or outright abuse. But that thread became a knot that followed me into adulthood. It shaped my relationships, my sense of worth, and my ability to speak my truth without fear.

Love in Complexity: Lessons from My Parents

Healing hasn’t been a straight line. But one thing I’ve come to realize is that even in the midst of pain, there can be love. My parents weren’t perfect, but they loved me in ways I couldn’t always see.

My father, for instance, was a quiet, distant presence in much of my life — much older than me, intellectual, prominent and busy, not truly available. I often questioned how he felt about me—whether he loved me at all. And then, toward the end of his life, everything became clear. He waited for me on his deathbed. He held on until I arrived, as though the last act of his life was to say goodbye to me, to pass on the torch with heartfelt last words. That moment shattered me and healed me all at once. It was his way of saying, without words, that I mattered to him: his unspoken love was sublimely revealed. This is an unforgettable moment for me.

My mother, too, loves me fiercely—but her love comes with strings attached. She has high standards, and her expectations often feel like a weight I can’t carry. There’s guilt when I don’t meet those expectations, and an unspoken pressure to live up to the image she continues to have for me. But even with all of that, I cannot deny her altruism, her generosity, her undeniable, unconditional love. She gives so much of herself to me, even when it comes at a cost to her.

As I reflect on these dynamics, I do so with deep respect and gratitude for my parents. They weren’t perfect, but their love was real. This is my truth, and sharing it is my way of honoring the ways they shaped me—both through their challenges and their gifts.

These relationships taught me that love is never simple. It can be both a gift and a burden. It can lift you up and hold you down. But more than anything, they taught me that love, in all its messiness, is worth holding onto.

The Fear of Being Seen

While my parents shaped so much of who I am, it’s my extended family—both my cousins by blood and my ‘cousins’ through lifelong friendship—who have taught me the quiet power of acceptance. As an only child, they were my siblings in every way that mattered. Whether connected by family or forged through deep, enduring bonds, they’ve always treated me with tenderness and care, even when I wasn’t sure if they knew my story.

But that tenderness has always been paired with a quiet fear. What if they do know my story? What if, by sharing my truth, I lose that love and acceptance I’ve come to cherish so deeply? It’s a fear I’ve carried with me for years, one that I’m still learning how to face.

Reclaiming Sovereignty

All of these threads—the exile, the wounds, the love, and the fear—have brought me here, to this moment. And as I look back, I see that the real work of my life hasn’t been about fixing anything or erasing the pain. It’s been about reclaiming my sovereignty.

For me, sovereignty isn’t about control or perfection. It’s about learning how to hold all the contradictions of my life—the love and the pain, the fear and the strength—without letting them tear me apart. It’s about creating a sense of safety and belonging within myself, instead of searching for it in others.

Reclaiming sovereignty means leading my life with intention. It means setting boundaries and breaking the patterns of silence and self-betrayal that have followed me for so long. It means speaking my truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. And it means honoring the people I love—not by making myself small, but by showing up as the fullest, truest version of myself.

Looking Ahead

As I write this, I find myself wondering what comes next. My story is far from over, and the myth I’m living is still unfolding. But for the first time, I feel curious about what’s ahead.

I don’t know what’s waiting for me on the other side of this journey, but I know this: I’m not afraid to face it. I’m not afraid to keep growing, to keep healing, to keep loving, even when it’s hard. Because that’s what it means to reclaim your sovereignty—not to have all the answers, but to trust yourself enough to keep moving forward.

And so, this is where I stand—at the edge of a story that is still being written. A story that has taught me how to love, how to heal, and how to lead my life with courage and compassion.