I may be the first person in my bloodline to face the shame that’s been passed down for generations.

And no one in my family will ever clap for it.

There won’t be a celebration.
No one will say thank you.
If anything, they’ll resent me for it.
For not playing along.
For breaking the pattern.
For choosing to heal instead of repeat.

Sometimes I feel this strange tension—
like joy is within reach, like peace is finally possible—
but some part of me still aches: Why didn’t I get any of that?

Why wasn’t I seen?
Why wasn’t I safe?
Why did I have to earn love that should have been freely given?

And yet… here I am.
Choosing to feel.
To parent myself.
To protect my son.
To love with boundaries.
To stop the cycle.

No, they won’t clap for me.
But I know what I’m doing.
And I know what I’ve stopped.

It ends with me.

And maybe that’s the kind of quiet, ancestral courage that never gets named—
but still changes everything.