Grieving the Childhood I Didn’t Get to Have

I grieve my childhood — the shame I carried from as early as I can remember, believing I was not worthy enough, not deserving enough of my parents’ love, care, or acknowledgement. I understand now that I was placed in what was believed to be the safest environment for my growth, but it was not easy. I lived with a constant sense of fear. I felt unwanted. From a very young age, I embodied the feeling of being a burden — a belief that was never true, yet one that still weighs on me today. I felt unimportant because no one seemed to take ownership of me or treat my care as something of real importance.

I grieve the loss of my innocence — the confusion of experiencing unsolicited sexual advances at an age when I could not understand them, and the shame that followed, leaving me feeling responsible for something I did not cause. I also struggled with thoughts and feelings I did not understand, which deepened that sense of shame and isolation.

I grieve a childhood I was never fully allowed to enjoy. I became my grandmother’s confidant, carrying emotional burdens that belonged to adults. She shared her disappointments, her opinions of her children — including my father — and her frustrations about commitments that were not always honoured. In doing so, I became aware of my own perceived cost and inconvenience to her. I understood far too early what it meant to feel like a weight someone else had to carry — a burden I am still quick to assume today. She did not do this out of malice, but likely from her own unhealed trauma. Still, the impact remained. This exposure gave me an understanding of life far beyond my years, but it also took something from me.

I grieve the way I was parentified — not through raising younger siblings, but through co-running a household alongside my grandmother. By the age of fourteen, I found myself helping my sister recover from hospitalisation while also caring for my grandmother. I was not a nurse or an adult, yet I carried responsibilities that required me to become one.

I grieve my lost adolescence. I became pregnant at sixteen, and shortly after my son was born, my father passed away. Two weeks later, my beloved grandmother died as well. The weight of those losses was an earthquake in a life that had barely begun. I was never prepared for such tragedy, nor was I given the space to grieve. Life simply moved forward, and so did I, carrying losses I never learned how to mourn.

These experiences have shaped how I move through relationships today. I have become agile in escape; whenever I feel heavy for another person, I run. When faced with the discomfort of love or compromise, I retreat. I break my own heart before I expect another to reject me. Waves of unworthiness still surface, and impostor syndrome appears without warning. I try to acknowledge these feelings and understand where they come from rather than letting them quietly dictate my choices.

I recognise now that there are times when my emotions sit closer to the surface, particularly in the days before my menstrual cycle, when the grief I have long pushed down demands to be felt. On those days, I try to allow myself release — through writing, through tears, through honesty. I am learning to be gentle and loving with myself, to understand my body and its cycles, and to treat myself with kindness and care.

Perhaps this is what healing looks like for me now — not the absence of grief, but the willingness to sit with it. To give space to the child who learned too early to be strong. To allow imperfection without shame. And to believe, slowly but surely, that I am still worthy of love.

My conversations with God........

Before I begin my rant, I want to start with gratitude.

Thank you.

My circumstances this year have improved so much from last year. I am no longer struggling for the basics, and I don’t take that lightly. And yet—despite the stability, despite the provision—I still find myself frustrated.

God, I don’t understand so much.

I’m trying my best to make sense of it all, but the process isn’t easy. Still, I have no doubt that You love me. I’m learning, slowly, to love and trust You too—and that part is beautiful. I am deeply grateful for the opportunity, even when the journey itself feels wild.

So often I don’t know if I’m coming or going, or whether I’m truly on the right path. I rely on my “tummy test” more than ever now, and I feel calm more often about most things. But there is still uncertainty—about outcomes, about timing, about what’s next. I admit that uncertainty feels gentler than anxiety, and perhaps that is growth.

I’ve noticed something else too.

I am no longer willing to overlook what I once let slide. Rudeness and disrespect are louder now. Manipulation and emotional abuse no longer whisper—I hear them clearly. And more importantly, I no longer accept them. I demand more. I deserve more. That realisation is unsettling, especially when it shifts the coasters of my life.

I don’t understand everything—but I am wise. I am sure of this. I am even more certain of my expertise. I am not the Donna I once was, and settling into this new version of myself requires adjustment, patience, and grace.

I came here to complain.

I came here to cry.

Instead, I find that I am growing.

And growth, I realise, is what I desire most.

I ask for emotional intelligence. I ask for wisdom—to release those who no longer belong close to me. And above all, I ask that You do not leave me. Finding You has been everything I needed, and somehow even more than I imagined.

I have often said that I was not loved for 37 years. Perhaps that was true through my own broken lens. Perhaps it was incomplete. I see now that I am loved—and loveable—with a rich and complex experience of love and life behind me.

I struggle with reciprocity.

But I am learning to need it less.

And I am learning to give more to little Donna-Ray.

I have tried to love my children in ways I was never cared for, and I hope I have not failed them. It is both terrifying and extraordinary—to parent while healing. Still, I trust that presence, honesty, and love matter more than perfection.

This journey is scary.

And it is amazing.

I wish I knew more. But I trust that in time—if I continue to do the work—it will all come together.

I am grateful for the opportunity to be alive.

To learn.

To seek.

To explore this beautiful world.

I do not ignore my privilege—it is immense. And I know that to whom much is given, much is required. I have been given so much: beauty, intellect, depth, sensuality, emotional intelligence, meaningful work.

For all of it, God, I am profoundly grateful.

Thank you. 🙏🏾

A modern day crime......sexiness!

The hardest part about being a beautiful woman is not the beauty itself, but the way the world responds to it.

For many of us, it begins quietly and early — a sideways comment, a look held for too long, a growing awareness that the body you are becoming is suddenly being watched, judged, and discussed. Sometimes this scrutiny begins within your own family. Curves appear, maturity follows, and instead of guidance or protection, shame too often takes its place.

As adolescence unfolds, the commentary multiplies. Friends, classmates, strangers — everyone seems to have an opinion. Remarks, subtle insinuations, and unspoken expectations accumulate, and without realising it, you begin to carry them within you. They shape how you see yourself long before you are old enough to question them.

Life, of course, is not linear. Sometimes choices are made before we are fully ready, or circumstances unfold in ways we never planned. Too often, instead of being met with compassion, women are met with labels. Our stories are reduced to assumptions; our character is questioned before it is understood.

What usually follows is a long, quiet journey back to self. Learning to be gentle with your body. Learning to see it as yours again. Learning that confidence and sensuality are not flaws, but natural expressions of comfort, ownership, and self-acceptance.

Yet even then, the world does not always know how to respond to a woman who is both self-possessed and sensual. Confidence is mistaken for availability. Ease in one’s own skin is misinterpreted. Over time, this becomes exhausting — until eventually, it becomes clarifying.

With age comes discernment. You learn that peace is not always found in explaining yourself, but in choosing distance. In protecting your energy. In surrounding yourself only with those who see you fully and treat you with care.

I embrace my sexiness now not as rebellion, and not as armour, but as truth. It is not something I wear for validation. It is simply part of who I am.

Being sexy does not diminish my values. It does not define my worth. And it certainly does not place a price on me.

I am a woman with a good heart, doing her best to honour her responsibilities, care for her family, and grow into herself with integrity. I work hard. I love deeply. And I no longer apologise for taking up space exactly as I am.

This is not defiance.

It is self-respect.