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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.

Finding Love in the Past, Rediscovering It Today

Photo by Leandro Boogalu on Pexels.com

As a kid, I was no stranger to the sting of being underestimated. At school, every step I took on the track was met with boos from classmates, especially when I dared to succeed. Their jeers echoed louder than my footsteps, trying to drown out my determination. But I didn’t let it stop me. Running was my passion, my escape, my way of proving to myself that I could rise above the noise. Those taunts? They didn’t break me—they fueled me.

One summer, everything changed. I discovered the Suncoast Runners Club, a group that hosted 5-mile runs on the beach under the stars. It was a world away from the schoolyard’s cruelty. There was just one catch: I couldn’t drive. So, at 15, I’d hop on my bike and pedal 7 miles through the humid Florida night to get there, my legs burning before I even hit the sand. Then, after crossing the finish line, I’d pedal 7 miles back home, sweat-soaked and exhilarated. Those 14 miles on two wheels were worth every second for the two hours of magic I found with the club.

The runners at Suncoast were different. Instead of boos, I heard cheers. Instead of bullying, I felt encouragement. Strangers became teammates, shouting my name as I pushed through the final mile. For those two hours, I wasn’t the kid who was “less than.” I was a runner, part of a community that saw my effort and celebrated it. It felt like I had a life—a real, vibrant life—where my passion wasn’t just tolerated but embraced.

When I got home, though, the high would fade. I’d collapse onto my bed, pop on my headphones, and let the Eagles’ The Sad Café wash over me. The song’s melancholy chords mirrored the weight of returning to a world where I felt small again. But those nights at Suncoast planted a seed, a reminder that my passion could carry me somewhere better.

Now, years later, I’m rediscovering that love for running. It’s not just about lacing up my sneakers or hitting the pavement—it’s about reclaiming that sense of belonging I felt with the Suncoast Runners. The boos of the past don’t echo as loudly anymore, and I’m learning to replace them with my own cheers. Running is still my healing, my way of moving forward, one step at a time. It’s a passion that’s waited patiently for me to come back, and I’m ready to meet it again.

What’s a passion from your past that you’re ready to rediscover, and how will you take that first step?
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