Finding Forty

There are moments in trauma healing that feel like someone has reached into your chest and touched an old bruise you didn’t realize was still tender.

Not to hurt it, but to acknowledge it.

That’s what happened when my estranged brother reached out.

A simple message.

An invitation to meet.

And then the words I never thought I’d see:

“I’m sorry… I hope you can forgive me.”

It wasn’t just a message from him. It was a message from my past.

From a childhood where chaos was normalized.

Where survival was the skill we learned before reading or riding a bike.

For anyone who grew up in trauma, you understand:

childhood doesn’t end when you become an adult.

It follows you.

It shows up in your nervous system, your relationships, your boundaries, your fears, your craving for connection and your fear of it at the same time.

When his message came through, my first reaction wasn’t simple.

It was layered.

I felt nostalgia for the siblinghood I once imagined.

I felt grief for the family we never had.

And I felt dread, because reconnecting, even gently, asks the body to reopen old files it once buried for protection.

But trauma work has taught me something essential:

You can feel compassion without abandoning your boundaries.

You can hear someone’s apology without merging your life with theirs.

You can hold truth and tenderness at the same time.

We Were Children Navigating a Storm With No Lifeguard

For so long, I viewed the pain between us as personal, something he caused, something I carried.

Healing has shifted that lens.

The truth is:

we were two children in a traumatic environment that offered neither guidance nor emotional stability.

He was the firstborn trying to earn love from a mother who didn’t have the capacity to give it.

I was the younger sibling watching and learning in a house built on survival and instability.

Our choices as kids and teenagers were not character flaws.

They were coping mechanisms, understandable reactions of children without safety, structure, or emotional literacy.

That realization didn’t excuse the hurt.

But it helped me understand its roots.

And understanding is one of the first steps toward freedom.

Healing Changes the Story You Tell Yourself

I’ve spent years in therapy.

Years in support groups.

Years working with teens from backgrounds so similar to ours that it felt like watching our childhood unfold in front of me, only this time with adult eyes and vocabulary.

What I learned is this:

Trauma explains behavior.

It doesn’t condone it, but it explains it.

And when you finally see the pattern, the grip of the past loosens.

I no longer hold hate.

I no longer hold blame.

What I hold now is a deep desire for peace, for myself, for my children, even for the ones who hurt me.

Memory Is a Strange Kind of Mercy

In the middle of all the pain, I still remember him trying to protect us.

I remember him standing between us and the neighborhood kids.

I remember him carrying expectations that were far too heavy for a boy his age.

And somehow, healing has allowed me to hold that truth alongside the hurt, not deleting one to make room for the other.

This is what trauma recovery does:

it gives you a more complete picture.

It lets you see the child who was drowning, not just the teenager who lashed out.

It lets you honor the wounded parts of someone without giving those parts authority over your present life.

Boundaries: The Quiet Heroes of Healing

So when I responded to him, I answered with compassion and clarity.

I told him I appreciated his message.

I told him I saw the bravery in reaching out.

And I also told him the truth:

Right now, my emotional bandwidth is limited.

My life is full of tender places, a toddler navigating big emotions, a newborn, postpartum health challenges, a husband with autoimmune issues, and my own cancer recovery.

My response wasn’t rejection.

It wasn’t punishment.

It was protection, of my healing, my stability, and the life I’ve worked so hard to build.

Boundaries aren’t walls.

They’re doors we open intentionally and cautiously.

And sometimes, healing means only opening them a few inches at a time.

Repair Doesn’t Always Mean Reunion

His apology doesn’t erase the past, and it doesn’t guarantee the future.

But it does plant a seed.

A seed of possibility.

A seed of acknowledgment.

A seed of repair, small, delicate, but real.

Trauma healing has taught me that reunification doesn’t have to be the goal.

Peace can happen without full reconciliation.

Forgiveness can be internal and quiet.

Connection can be slow, minimal, and still meaningful.

What matters most is this:

I can honor my story without reopening the wounds.

I can accept his remorse without sacrificing my stability.

And I can allow a small, cautious bridge to form, one step at a time, one message at a time, only as fast as my nervous system feels safe.

This is healing.

Not the shiny, dramatic kind.

But the slow, steady, grounded kind that honors the child I was, the adult I’ve become, and the family I’m building now.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is answer the past with both compassion and boundaries.

Sometimes the bravest thing is simply this:

“I see you. And I’m healing too.”