Mental Garden

Chapter Three: Don't Overwater

Part One

In the realm of my mother's family, I found myself navigating a landscape fraught with judgment and antiquated ideals. Their old-fashioned ways seemed to cast a shadow over every aspect of my life, leaving me feeling like an outsider within my own bloodline. The weight of their body-shaming comments became a relentless burden—one I carried with me like an unwelcome companion. Their words were like shards of glass, piercing the delicate fabric of my self-esteem. In their eyes, I was a canvas to be critiqued, my worth measured by arbitrary standards that left no room for self-acceptance.

Their intrusive nature bordered on invasive, their curiosity becoming a vessel for unsolicited advice and comments. They seemed to believe they held the keys to my happiness, but their version of it rarely aligned with my own aspirations and desires. I felt suffocated by their attempts to shape my life according to their preconceived notions. And as I navigated through the labyrinth of family gatherings, I couldn't escape the feeling of being watched, their eyes scrutinizing every move I made. Their sneaky whispers and hushed conversations served as a constant reminder that my actions were being dissected, judged, and discussed behind closed doors.

In the face of this judgment, I struggled to find my voice—a voice that was worthy of being heard, that deserved to be free from the clutches of their narrow-mindedness. It was a voice I had to fight to reclaim, to drown out the echoes of their criticism and make space for my own truth. I realized that their judgments were reflections of their own insecurities, their need to validate their own choices and beliefs by imposing them on others. Their behavior was a product of their own limitations, a way to maintain control and conformity within the family dynamic. As time went on, I began to distance myself from the toxicity that pervaded my mother's family. I found solace in building boundaries and choosing when and how I interacted with them. I recognized that my worth was not defined by their judgment, and that I had the power to decide how much their opinions impacted my sense of self. We have the agency to create our own families, composed of those who uplift and support us, who see us for who we truly are, and who champion our journey towards self-love and authenticity.

Amidst the shadows of judgment and old-fashioned ways, there existed a time when my mother's side of the family was a vibrant tapestry of love and laughter. The memories of those wonderful family gatherings, Christmas celebrations, and Easters filled with joy are etched in the deepest recesses of my heart. I remember the warmth of their embraces, the way their eyes sparkled with affection, and the way their laughter resonated like music in the air. There was a time when their gatherings were filled with camaraderie and a genuine sense of togetherness.During those cherished moments, judgment seemed like a distant memory, and their hearts were open, embracing the diversity of our family. They celebrated each member's uniqueness and reveled in the beauty of our individual journeys.

Those family gatherings were a mosaic of love—a place where acceptance flourished, and we felt a sense of belonging. It was a time when we could be ourselves, free from the constraints of societal expectations and the burden of judgment. Christmas was a symphony of delight—a season where we united in the spirit of giving, cherishing the bonds that held us together. The joy of opening presents and sharing laughter filled the room, creating an atmosphere of happiness that became the heart of the holiday. Easter brought a sense of renewal and hope—a time of reflection and gratitude for the blessings we shared. The egg hunts and cheerful games brought us closer, forging memories that remain like precious gems in the treasure chest of my mind.

Yet, as life unfolded, the dynamics of the family began to shift. New challenges emerged, and the weight of judgment seeped into our gatherings like an unwelcome guest. Old-fashioned beliefs seemed to resurface, leaving a trace of distance in our connections.

It was a transformation that saddened me—a realization that life's journey is filled with ebbs and flows, and that families, too, are subject to change. But amidst this transformation, I hold on to the memories of those beautiful moments, cherishing the love that once bound us together.In the chapters of my life, I seek to reconcile the past with the present—a journey that demands understanding and compassion. I recognize that my mother's side of the family is made up of flawed and complex individuals, just like any other.
As I move forward, I strive to cultivate that spirit of love within my own life—to create gatherings where laughter abounds, judgment is left at the door, and acceptance becomes the cornerstone of our interactions. Through this commitment, I hope to build a legacy of love that echoes through generations, reminding us all of the beautiful moments that once united us as a family.

Part Two:

My dad's side of the family existed as a distant yet cherished presence—a world away in Portugal, hundreds of miles from the place I called home. Despite the geographical distance, their love and warmth reached across oceans, creating a bridge that connected our hearts.As a little girl, I eagerly anticipated the trips to Portugal, a land filled with magic and mystery. The excitement in my heart was palpable, even though I couldn't fully comprehend the intricacies of the language that flowed around me like a beautiful song. But the language of love and family transcended words, and I felt their embrace without needing translation.

Arriving in Portugal was like stepping into a painting—a vivid canvas of vibrant colors, rich traditions, and a tapestry of loving faces. Despite being surrounded by unfamiliar words and customs, I found comfort in their affectionate smiles and warm embraces. It was a reunion of hearts, and I felt like I belonged, even in this foreign land.

My dad's side of the family was a treasure trove of stories and memories that I eagerly absorbed like a sponge. I listened with fascination to the tales of generations past, stories of resilience, love, and triumphs over life's challenges. Through their stories, I felt a deeper connection to my roots—a sense of belonging that transcended the boundaries of time and distance. Despite the language barrier, we communicated through laughter and gestures, building bridges of understanding that united us in a language that goes beyond words. I cherished the shared moments of laughter and joy, the simplicity of love that needs no translation. As the years passed, the trips to Portugal became a cherished tradition, until they stopped. 

The sudden stoppage of our visits felt like a cruel twist of fate—a door that had once been open, now firmly closed. I longed for the familiar sights, sounds, and scents of Portugal—the bustling markets, the sweet aroma of pastries, and the joyful laughter of my cousins. But now, those memories remained only in the corners of my mind, like faded photographs in an old album.As a child, the impact of this loss was difficult to comprehend. I struggled to understand why the trips stopped, why I could no longer see the faces that had filled my heart with joy. I clung to the memories of the times we had shared, the warmth of their love, and the sense of belonging I had experienced in their presence.

In those moments of longing, I felt a sense of isolation—a feeling that I was adrift in a sea of separation from the roots of my heritage. I yearned to feel connected to my dad's side of the family, but the distance felt like an insurmountable barrier, a gulf between us that stretched infinitely. The absence of those trips was a loss that extended beyond the physical. It was a loss of identity, a loss of the tangible connection to my roots and the culture that ran through my veins. It felt like a chapter of my life had come to an abrupt close, leaving me with a profound sense of sadness and longing.

While the trips to Portugal may have stopped, the love and connection I shared with my dad's side of the family remained unwavering. It was a love that transcended time and distance—a love that was stitched into the fabric of my being.