Strength of Being "Unrepentant"
Reflections on Parental Imperfection and the Courage to Stand in Truth
What does it mean to be “unrepentant”? The dictionary tells
us it is to feel or express no regret for one’s actions. In the common tongue,
it’s a word often hurled with the weight of accusation, implying stubbornness,
arrogance, or a refusal to admit guilt. But when I reflect on my own journey as
an estranged mother, I wonder if “unrepentant” cannot also be a badge of
honor—evidence of clarity, honesty, and hard-won integrity.
My estranged children have demanded that I change—into
someone, something—without ever putting a name to what that “someone” might be.
I found myself trapped in an endless loop, accused of abuses that never
occurred, asked to repent for sins I know, with the certainty of daylight, are
not mine. I know the difference between objective and subjective truth. There
are facts, and there are feelings. For example, I know as surely as I know my
own breath that I did not kill the Lindbergh baby. If they insisted I confess
to it, would a good mother do so just to placate them, to bridge the chasm
between us?
Note: This is so triggering for me. As a ten-year-old child I was forced to admit to something that I did not do and was beaten for it. When the person that was responsible came and confessed, I as asked why I confessed. I was brow beaten into confession. I finally said I did it because that's what he wanted me to say. I wanted it to stop and if that meant taking a beating, so be it. When I became an adult, I vowed that I would never let that happen to me again. But that's what they want from me, and it makes me physically ill to think about it.
Would you call me unrepentant for refusing to admit to lies?
Would you say I am stubborn, out of touch with reality, or unwilling to face my
mistakes? I cannot agree to a fiction—not for their comfort, nor for mine. I
call that honesty, not obstinacy. In a world quick to label, I find the most
powerful act is to stand in my truth, even at the cost of my own happiness. I
have paid dearly for it. But what other choice is there, truly, for a person
determined to live with self-respect?
Note: Mistakes I have made throughout my life I have readily admitted to in to as near as real time as possible. I find it anxiety producing to carry them and not seek accountability and responsibility.
I did not emotionally, psychologically, or physically abuse
my children. I was not “enmeshed” beyond the normal, tangled love and worry
that comes with motherhood. I was a normally flawed parent. Twice I write it,
that it may ring out above the din of accusation: I was a normally flawed
parent. This is the term we must learn to use, and use bravely, in our defense
and, perhaps, in defense of our own parents as well.
Perfection is a myth. Parents are not born with the ability to predict every wound, to sidestep every mistake, to fulfill every unspoken need. Nor are children, now adults, immune to their own failings or blind spots. We are all, in the end, simply and painfully human.
I have been estranged for eight years. In that time, I have
mourned with the full weight of my heart, and I have healed as much as a mother
can. The human heart is not built for unending grief; we are not meant to dwell
in sorrow’s shadow forever. There comes a day when we must choose life, even if
it means accepting absence and relinquishing the hope of a perfect
reconciliation or reconciliation at all.
We are not, as parents, obligated to sacrifice our life's
happiness on the altar of our children's rejection, especially when that
rejection comes with demands we erase ourselves for a love that cannot be
coaxed or conjured out of air. When our children choose to abdicate their place
in our lives, to cast aside family bonds, the loss is mutual, and the mourning
belongs to both sides.
So, am I unrepentant? If it means refusing to lie, to
perform guilt for another’s comfort, to betray my own memory and character,
then yes—proudly, unwaveringly so. I choose to role-model the strength of
honesty and the courage to accept my human flaws. I choose not to grieve
forever, but to heal, to hope, and to live.
To all normally flawed parents, estranged or not: may you
find peace in your honesty, and may your children one day see the difference
between wounds imagined and wounds inflicted, between regret that heals and
regret that destroys. Let us not be ashamed to stand in our truth, even when it
is misunderstood. The cost is high, but the reward is the quiet, unshakeable
integrity of a life lived honestly.
I am currently happily out of the loop and grateful for it every day.
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