Growing up, I never knew stability. My parents were always broke, always chasing the next “rough patch” that never ended. We lived in constant fear—of eviction, empty fridges, and disconnected lights. They chose to have kids without a plan, and I spent my childhood paying the emotional price. Now, I’ve worked hard, built a career, and finally have savings. But when they asked me for money, I said no. They called me ungrateful. My mom said, “We struggled so you could have a better life.” But I didn’t have a better life—I had trauma, and I won’t fund the cycle anymore.
They never budgeted, never saved, and always blamed the system. I remember skipping meals so they could buy lottery tickets. They said things would get better, but they never did. I learned to hustle young—babysitting, tutoring, anything to help keep the lights on. I didn’t have hobbies or sleepovers. I had anxiety and shame. And now they expect me to forget all that and become their financial safety net. I can’t. I won’t. I’m not a charity, and I’m not their redemption story.
When I refused, they guilted me. My dad said, “Family helps family.” But where was that help when I needed school supplies or a warm coat? I’m not bitter—I’m just done pretending their choices didn’t shape my pain. I’ve built something they never taught me to build: security. And I won’t dismantle it to soothe their regret. I love them, but love doesn’t mean enabling. It means truth. And the truth is, they need to face the consequences of their decisions.
I’ve offered advice, resources, even helped them apply for assistance. But I won’t hand over cash. That’s not cruelty—it’s clarity. I’m breaking the cycle, not continuing it. I want a future where my kids never feel the fear I did. That starts with boundaries. And boundaries aren’t betrayal—they’re survival. I’m choosing peace over guilt, and growth over obligation. It’s the hardest decision I’ve made—but also the most necessary.
They’ve stopped calling. The silence hurts, but not as much as the years I spent feeling invisible. I’m healing now, slowly. Therapy helps. So does remembering that I’m allowed to protect myself. I’m not responsible for their past—I’m responsible for my future. And that future doesn’t include sacrificing everything I’ve built to fix what they broke. I wish them well. But I wish myself better.
So here’s to the children who rise from poverty and choose boundaries. To the ones who break cycles with courage, not cash. And to the truth that healing sometimes means saying, “No more.”
