I Didn’t Fight for My Freedom Until After She Died

For most of my life, I didn’t think of myself as a fighter.

Fighters were loud, noticeable, impossible to ignore.

I was none of those things.

I lived under the radar, undetectable, doing everything I could to avoid the consequences of being seen.

And I didn’t fight for my freedom while she was alive.

The whispers of this work began on December 20, 2020, the day I realized she was an abusive narcissist.

That realization changed everything—but it didn’t mean I suddenly knew how to fight for myself.

It wasn’t about reclaiming my freedom or healing.

Rather, it was about surviving what came next and finding my way through.

Then she died eight months later.

And her death enrolled me in a war I never signed up for.

I didn’t choose this battle.

But I fought.

Boy, did I fight.

And I won.

But let’s be clear about something: this war almost took me out.

I fought alone.

No one understood what I was going through.

No one had a guidebook for this kind of grief.

And when I told some family members about talking to a psychic medium for answers?

I was laughed at. :-(

They smirked.

Rolled their eyes.

Shrugged me off like I was some poor, delusional soul grasping at thin air.

To them, my grief was an inconvenience, a joke.

But I didn’t do this for them!

I did this for me!

I clawed my way through the darkest trenches, fighting for clarity, for answers, for my own goddamn life.

And the only person who saw what I went through?

The only person who didn’t tell me I was crazy?

My husband (side note: I did not marry a narcissist, which can be common for adult children of narcissistic parents).

Gentle, steady, unwavering.

He stood beside me, flashlight in hand, while I crawled through the dark wreckage.

When I wanted to collapse, he held my hand and the light high enough for me to see that there was still a way forward.

And step by step, I took it.

Look what I’ve done:

• I refused to let her define me—even in death. Her grip on me was supposed to be unbreakable, and I assumed it would be even from the grave. But I shattered the mold she cast me in and refused to carry her legacy of pain!

• I turned toward the unbearable instead of running from it. I didn’t have the luxury of denial. The grief, the confusion, the memories—I met them all head-on, even when they tried to drown me!

• I faced the truth no one else wanted to admit. The truth about who she really was. The truth that my father and I had lived through a hell no one else could see! The truth that my mother—this woman so many thought was kind and lovely—was anything but!

• I reconstructed myself without a blueprint. There was no guidebook for this. No mentor. No map. I built myself back from the ground up, piece by piece, even when I had no idea what I was becoming!

• I sought answers beyond the veil. When the living failed me, I turned to the dead. I demanded answers from the spirit world, from the universe, from the fragments of what she left behind. And the answers came.

• I allowed myself to fall apart—because deep down, I knew that falling apart was the only way through. I collapsed under the weight of it all. I let the grief swallow me whole. But I didn’t stay down. I emerged, remade!

This wasn’t just healing.

This was a war!

A war against the conditioning that told me I was nothing.

A war against the ghosts of a mother who wanted me small, invisible, and weak.

A war against a lifetime of being punished for existing.

And here’s the part that’s been the hardest for me to accept (I’m working on this, though!): I did a good job!

Why has it been hard for me to accept?

Because I was never permitted to do a good job at anything.

My successes were viewed as threats.

My achievements were punishable.

I was never supposed to be more than vanilla, never supposed to be seen.

If I did something well, I had to downplay it, dismiss it, or deny it.

And now, here I am.

Almost 58 years old.

Looking at the life I’m building!

Looking at the war I survived!

Looking at the version of myself that I fought to create!

And I’m learning how to do something radical:

• I’m learning how to see my progress

• I’m learning how to accept that I did something remarkable

• I’m learning how to believe I deserve to feel good about what I’ve done and that this is safe.

I don’t know if you struggle with this, too.

But if you do, I want you to take a moment right now—before your conditioned response tells you to dismiss this—and acknowledge your own fight.

Maybe you didn’t call yourself a fighter.

Maybe you were just surviving.

Maybe, like me, you didn’t even realize you were at war.

The Hollow Passage

This is The Hollow Passage—the place no one warns you about, the reckoning that comes after a narcissistic mother dies.

No matter how prepared you think you are, The Hollow swallows you whole.

It’s unexpected, confusing, complicated, terrifying, agonizing.

I didn’t fight for my freedom until I was trapped inside The Hollow.

I didn’t even know I had to.

And when I finally saw the war I was in, I fought my way out alone.

Damn right I feel like a badass!

Maybe you’re still there.

Maybe you’re just beginning to understand the battle ahead.

Maybe you don’t even realize you’re at war yet.

But if you feel lost inside The Hollow, know this—there is a way out.

And step by step, you will take it.

Your support in The Hollow Passage, 

Carole