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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.

Stranger Danger : What the 70’s Taught Me.

Photo by Prasad Dulam on Pexels.com

Picture this: it’s 2025, and I’m minding my own business when a car rolls up, window down, and a smiling couple inside offers me a bag lunch. “It’s just a sandwich!” they chirp, holding out a brown paper bag like it’s a peace offering from the sandwich gods. My first thought? Nope, I’ve seen this episode before, and it’s straight out of the 1970s. Back then, every kid was drilled with one golden rule: Don’t take candy—or anything edible—from strangers. Today, that couple’s bag lunch triggered my retro survival instincts, and let me tell you, the 70s had some wild lessons that still hold up.

The 70s: When Stranger Danger Was Peak Paranoia
Growing up in the 70s was like living in a low-budget horror flick. Parents, teachers, and those grainy PSA films warned us that strangers were basically candy-wielding villains in bell-bottoms. “Don’t take food from strangers!” they’d shout, painting vivid pictures of kids being lured into sketchy vans with promises of lollipops or, worse, those weird hard candies your grandma kept in her purse. The message was clear: if it’s edible and from someone you don’t know, it’s probably poisoned, cursed, or at the very least, stale.

I remember one neighbor kid, Tommy, who swore he took a cookie from a “nice lady” at the park and ended up grounded for a month—not because the cookie was bad, but because his mom was convinced he’d narrowly escaped a kidnapping. That’s how intense the 70s were about stranger food. We didn’t have “gluten-free” or “organic” to worry about; our only dietary restriction was “don’t eat the mystery snack from the guy in the leisure suit.”

Fast-Forward to 2025: The Bag Lunch Incident
So, when this couple in their shiny SUV dangled a bag lunch at me, my 70s-trained brain went into full DEFCON 1. I mean, who offers a random sandwich to a passerby? Were they Good Samaritans, or was this some modern reboot of the candy-van scheme? I politely waved them off, but my mind was spinning. Was it a PB&J laced with regret? A turkey club with a side of “you’re coming with us”? I wasn’t about to find out.

Having lived in China for a while, I’ve seen how cultural norms around food and trust differ. There, sharing food can be a warm gesture of community, like when coworkers insisted I try their homemade dumplings (spoiler: they were delicious, and I’m still alive). But even my global perspective couldn’t override the 70s kid in me screaming, “Stranger sandwich equals danger sandwich!” Cultural context is great, but the 70s didn’t mess around, and neither do I when it comes to unsolicited lunches.

What the 70s Got Right (and Wrong)
The 70s taught me to trust my gut—literally and figuratively. If something feels off about a stranger’s offer, it probably is. That bag lunch could’ve been a kind gesture, sure, but it also could’ve been a soggy tuna melt with a side of bad vibes. The 70s gave me a healthy skepticism that’s saved me from plenty of questionable situations, from dodgy street food to coworkers who swear their “special brownies” are “totally fine.”

That said, the 70s might’ve gone a tad overboard. Not every stranger is a mustache-twirling villain, and not every free snack is a trap. Today, I wonder if that couple was just being nice—maybe they were part of some “feed the community” initiative. But then I remember the 70s PSAs with their ominous organ music and think, Nah, better safe than sorry.

Lessons for 2025 (and Beyond)
So, what did the 70s teach me about that bag lunch moment? Three things:

  1. Trust Your Instincts: If your inner 70s kid says “run,” at least pause and ask why someone’s handing out free food.
  2. Context Matters: My time in China showed me that food can be a bridge, but the 70s taught me to check for trapdoors first.
  3. Laugh It Off: Life’s too short to stress about every mystery sandwich. Decline politely, walk away, and maybe treat yourself to a coffee from Starbucks—sorry, I mean “Overpriced Coffee with Your Name Misspelled.”

In the end, I didn’t take the bag lunch, and I’m still here to tell the tale. The 70s gave me a survival manual for a world full of strangers and snacks, and I’m sticking to it. Next time someone offers me food out of nowhere, I’ll just smile, wave, and channel my inner Tommy: “Thanks, but I’m good—my mom’s got cookies at home.”

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