Stories That Heal
At Hope+Wellth, we believe in the transformative power of storytelling. Stories allow us to learn, grow, and heal by sharing our experiences with others. Whether you’re sharing a real-life experience, a fictional tale with a message rooted in truth or an anonymous account of a personal journey, your story has the potential to inspire, comfort and empower others.
We invite you to submit your personal stories to be featured in our magazine. Your story can be submitted anonymously or you can choose to share your name—whatever feels most comfortable for you. Our hope is to create a safe space where voices are heard, hearts are touched and healing begins.
To submit your story, email us at stories@hopeandwellth.com. We look forward to reading your unique experiences and celebrating the power of storytelling together.
These rules created a sea of self-doubt, confusion and people-pleasing behavior that took a decade of therapy to begin to untangle. Even now, I sometimes feel her grip tightening, and I find myself wondering if I’m “in trouble” for breaking one of her irrational rules. At other times, I feel a pang of compassion or even pity for her. She often reminds me that she’s “doing the best she can” and that she’s just trying to help. A smaller part of me believes she genuinely doesn’t know any better, shaped as she was by a mother who was void of emotion and a family that only praised her for achievement and problem-solving.
My Mother Did Her Best - But it Still Hurt Me
By Anonymous
For most of my life, my relationship with my mother was defined by an unspoken set of rules and expectations that felt like an emotional minefield. The constant comparisons between me and my siblings, the silent treatment whenever I dared to deviate from her way and the unrelenting criticism were part of my daily reality. It was a relationship where peace existed only as long as I was agreeable and compliant. But the moment I started seeking therapy and found my voice, everything changed—for her, not for the better.
As a grown woman with a husband and children, you might think I would be free to live my life on my own terms. But my mother has always had very specific yet unspoken rules. I must call her every day, no matter what. I am expected to answer her calls on the first ring. I should always do what she would do, even if I fundamentally disagree. Disagreement is labeled as disrespect, and expressing hurt means I hate her. If I agree with anyone who disagrees with her, I’m disloyal. And above all, I must never tell her she is wrong—I should always affirm how wonderful she is.
My Mother Did Her Best - But it Still Hurt Me
By Anonymous
For most of my life, my relationship with my mother was defined by an unspoken set of rules and expectations that felt like an emotional minefield. The constant comparisons between me and my siblings, the silent treatment whenever I dared to deviate from her way and the unrelenting criticism were part of my daily reality. It was a relationship where peace existed only as long as I was agreeable and compliant. But the moment I started seeking therapy and found my voice, everything changed—for her, not for the better.
As a grown woman with a husband and children, you might think I would be free to live my life on my own terms. But my mother has always had very specific yet unspoken rules. I must call her every day, no matter what. I am expected to answer her calls on the first ring. I should always do what she would do, even if I fundamentally disagree. Disagreement is labeled as disrespect, and expressing hurt means I hate her. If I agree with anyone who disagrees with her, I’m disloyal. And above all, I must never tell her she is wrong—I should always affirm how wonderful she is.
These rules created a sea of self-doubt, confusion and people-pleasing behavior that took a decade of therapy to begin to untangle. Even now, I sometimes feel her grip tightening, and I find myself wondering if I’m “in trouble” for breaking one of her irrational rules. At other times, I feel a pang of compassion or even pity for her. She often reminds me that she’s “doing the best she can” and that she’s just trying to help. A smaller part of me believes she genuinely doesn’t know any better, shaped as she was by a mother who was void of emotion and a family that only praised her for achievement and problem-solving.
