The Mirror and the Memories…

For a while, I felt like I was finally getting my footing. I didn’t want to shatter the mirror when I saw my reflection staring back.

Therapy was helping. Medication was helping. The flashbacks had become less frequent. The night terrors weren’t stealing every night of sleep. The anxiety wasn’t running every aspect of my life. PTSD wasn’t gone, but it felt manageable. It felt like something I was learning to live with instead of something that was controlling me.

I was grateful for that.

Then came some recent events that pulled old wounds back to the surface.

Anyone who has experienced PTSD knows that healing isn’t always a straight line. Sometimes you can go months feeling stronger, healthier, and more grounded, only to have a trigger send you right back into memories and emotions you thought were finally losing their grip.

Lately, it’s felt like those memories are sitting in the front row again.

The words I spent years hearing play on repeat in my mind like a broken record.

The words that told me I wasn’t enough.

That I had no worth.

That I contributed nothing.

That I was a broken mess.

That there was nothing about me to be proud of.

That anyone could replace me.

That I wasn’t a good daughter.

And the one that cuts the deepest every single time—that I wasn’t a good mother. That someone else could do it better. That my children would be better off without me.

PTSD has a way of making old lies feel like current truths.

It doesn’t matter how much evidence exists to the contrary. In those moments, the flashbacks, anxiety, and fear become so loud that they drown everything else out.

What I struggle to remember on those days are the things that actually matter.

The handmade cards.

The random drawings.

The birthday breakfasts.

The unexpected “I love you, Mom.”

The requests for one-on-one time.

The dancing in the kitchen.

The car concerts where we’re all singing at the top of our lungs.

The fact that my teenagers still come to me with their problems, their excitement, their heartbreaks, and their secrets.

The friendships we’ve built alongside our mother-child relationships.

The hugs.

The snuggles.

The moments that prove, over and over again, that I am loved.

PTSD and anxiety have a cruel way of hiding those memories behind a fog of fear and self-doubt.

They convince you to focus on every mistake while ignoring all the evidence of the good you’ve done.

They make you question things that don’t deserve to be questioned.

They make you forget who you are.

But here’s what I hope my children see.

I hope they see that I never gave up.

I hope they see that even on the days when I was exhausted, overwhelmed, hurting, or fighting battles they couldn’t see, I kept showing up.

I hope they see the therapy appointments.

The hard conversations.

The healing.

The growth.

The tears.

The courage it takes to keep moving forward when every part of you wants to shut down.

I know I’m not perfect.

My kids know I’m not perfect.

I make mistakes. I lose my patience. I fall short.

But they also know this:

I will always fight for them.

I will always protect them.

I will always be their biggest supporter, loudest cheerleader, and safest place to land.

PTSD may steal my peace sometimes.

It may steal my sleep.

It may steal my confidence.

But it will never steal my love for my children.

And on the days when the flashbacks are loud and the broken record starts playing again, that’s the truth I’m trying hardest to remember. ❤️

Because PTSD can distort my reflection in the mirror, but it doesn’t change who I am. And it certainly doesn’t change the mother I’ve worked so hard to be.