Open Letters

Let the Healing begin

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At 60, I’m finally facing the pain I’ve carried for decades. It’s a heavy load, one I was taught to ignore because my emotions didn’t matter. “Just let it go,” they said. “Others matter more.” In my family of four, I was the “fish child”—the odd one out, swimming in a current of expectations and unspoken rules, never quite fitting in. My mother’s death left a void, and my father’s grief turned the holidays, once a time of warmth, into a season of extra chores and shared misery. If he hated the holidays, we had to hate them too. Growing up, I learned to bury my feelings. My father’s selfishness—his insistence that we bear his pain—came with emotional and sometimes physical abuse. I was taught that tolerating this was the price of connection, that love meant enduring. But it didn’t. It left me disconnected, not just from him but from myself. Now, I’m unlearning those lessons. My emotions do matter. I don’t have to accept abuse to feel close to another human soul. This blog is my act of healing—a space to name the pain, to honor the fish child who deserved better, and to reach out to others who’ve lived similar stories. If you’ve ever felt invisible in your family, told to “let it go” while your heart ached, know this: you’re not alone. Your pain is real, and it’s okay to feel it. Healing starts with seeing yourself, with refusing to carry the weight of someone else’s misery. I’m 60, and I’m finally free to feel. To those reading this, I hope my words help you take that first step toward your own freedom. You don’t have to tolerate abuse to be loved. You are enough, just as you are. MeganR Pronounced Me-Goner as me gone from the abuse and living a happy life.

Girls Can Be Creepy Too: A Reflection on Privacy and Boundaries

An Open Letter to Anyone Who’s Had to Fight for Their Space

Growing up, I always heard that boys were the ones who could make things awkward—sneaking peeks, crossing lines, acting “weird.” But what about girls? Can they be creepy? Let me tell you about my second-eldest biological sibling, Vivian Ligas Normandeau, and why her behavior left me locking my bedroom door to protect my privacy.

Puberty hit me hard. My voice started cracking, and my body was doing things I couldn’t control. It was a time when I needed space more than ever. But Vivian? She didn’t care. She’d barge into my room without knocking, especially when I was changing. It wasn’t just annoying—it felt invasive, creepy, like my personal space didn’t matter. When I started locking the door, she got mad, as if my need for privacy was an attack on her. Mind you, this was someone who always got her way, no matter the cost.

Vivian had a knack for turning any situation into her spotlight. On my eldest sibling’s birthday, she’d cry because she wasn’t getting presents. It got so bad that my mom started buying her the same gifts just to keep the peace. One Halloween, when Dad said she was too young to trick-or-treat, she “accidentally” crashed her scooter, leaving us all dealing with the fallout. Another time, she climbed a super slide, fell, and needed stitches—I can’t recall what she was after, but it was always something. And then there was the candy fundraiser for some club she was in. She promised our dad would buy $400 worth of candy—back when our weekly grocery bill was $200. He pushed back, but her waterworks won, and he agreed to buy half.

This wasn’t just about candy or birthdays. It was a pattern. Vivian’s need to control everything spilled into my space, making me feel exposed at a time when I was already vulnerable. Her barging in wasn’t just thoughtless—it was unsettling, like she didn’t see me as a person with boundaries. I don’t call her or my other biological siblings “sisters.” That term is reserved for my chosen family, the female friends who’ve respected and supported me through thick and thin.

Looking back, I wonder what drove her. Was it jealousy, a need for attention, or just not understanding why privacy mattered? Our family dynamic didn’t help—my parents often gave in to her tears, which probably reinforced her behavior. But that doesn’t erase how it felt to be on the receiving end. Locking my door became my rebellion, my way of saying, “This is my space, and you don’t get to take it.” And I held firm, no matter how much she protested.

I’m sharing this because I know I’m not alone. Plenty of us have dealt with someone—girl, boy, or otherwise—who crossed lines and made us feel small. Society might tell us girls can’t be creepy, but they can. Creepy isn’t about gender; it’s about ignoring boundaries, making someone feel unsafe in their own skin. My story isn’t about vilifying Vivian—it’s about reclaiming my right to privacy and celebrating the strength it took to set that boundary.

So, I’m curious: Have you ever had to fight for your personal space? Maybe it was a sibling, a roommate, or someone else who didn’t get it. How did you stand your ground? Drop a comment below—I’d love to hear your stories. And if you’re dealing with this now, know this: Locking the door, metaphorically or literally, is your right. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.

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