Awakened Living

Category: Family & Relationships

  • Unlearning Silence: Healing the Wounds I Didn’t Know I Carried

    Unlearning Silence: Healing the Wounds I Didn’t Know I Carried

    For a long time, I believed I had moved on from my past. I told myself I had grown, evolved, and become someone different from where I came from. But recently, something shifted. Or maybe… something finally surfaced.

    It happened quietly—during a conversation with my partner. We’ve been together for four years, and in those years, he’s been patient, loving, and incredibly present. But he asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks: “Why can’t you open up emotionally? Why don’t you reach out when I’m hurting?”

    And I didn’t have an answer. Not right away.

    But in the silence that followed, I began to uncover a truth that had been buried deep within me. A truth that was shaped long before I ever knew what emotional intimacy was supposed to look like. A truth rooted in childhood trauma I thought I had escaped simply by surviving.

    Growing up, love was not something we expressed—it was something we assumed. We were never told, “I love you.” We weren’t held when we cried. We were often told how to feel, when to feel, or worse—not to feel at all.

    So I learned to shut down. To move through life without the warmth of emotional expression. And I carried that silence into adulthood, into motherhood, into my relationship.

    I never realized how deeply it shaped me until someone I love pointed it out—not to shame me, but to help me see myself.

    And now, at 49 years old, I’m facing something I thought I had already moved beyond: the unhealed wounds of my past.

    The Emotional Legacy We Don’t Talk About

    This isn’t about blame. It’s about acknowledgment. It’s about finally seeing that the patterns we learned as children don’t disappear with age—they adapt, they hide, and they show up in the quiet moments of our relationships, our parenting, and our inner dialogue.

    I never meant to carry emotional distance into my adult life, and I certainly never meant to pass it on to my children. But the truth is, what we don’t heal, we often repeat.

    We don’t say “I love you” often—not because we don’t feel it, but because it was never modeled for us. We don’t talk about our feelings—not because we don’t care, but because we were never taught how.

    And that silence… becomes generational.

    What I’m Learning

    I’m learning that love requires more than just presence—it requires vulnerability.

    I’m learning that healing doesn’t mean pretending the past didn’t hurt—it means gently unlearning the parts of yourself that were formed in pain.

    I’m learning that fear of rejection is not weakness—it’s a wound, and wounds can be tended to. With patience. With care. With the kind of love that stays even when you shut down—like my partner has.

    And I’m learning that it’s not too late. Not too late to say “I love you” more often. Not too late to show up emotionally for the people I care about. Not too late to say to my children, “I wish I had done it differently, and I’m willing to start now.”

    If You’ve Felt This Too…

    If you’ve ever found yourself wondering why it’s hard to express your feelings…

    If you’ve struggled to say “I love you” out loud…

    If you’ve pulled away instead of leaning in…

    You’re not alone.

    We don’t heal by pretending we’re okay. We heal by being honest about what still hurts—and giving ourselves the grace to grow from it.

    A Reflection to End With:

    What emotional patterns from your childhood are still living inside your present?

    And what would it look like to gently begin unlearning them?

    This is my journey—and I’m just getting started. If you’re walking this path too, I hope you’ll keep going. Healing doesn’t happen in one grand breakthrough. It happens in moments like this… when we finally name what we’ve carried for too long.

    With love and reflection,


    Rose Alicia

  • Returning to Myself: Writing My Way Back Home

    Returning to Myself: Writing My Way Back Home

    It’s been a while since I’ve written here. Life—beautiful, messy, and at times overwhelming—has kept me in motion, and somewhere along the way, I laid my pen down. Not out of neglect, but necessity. Sometimes, life demands all of you, and creativity takes a quiet step back.

    But today, I return.
    Today, I show up for myself—with grace, with presence, and with a full heart.

    Writing has always been my way back home. A soft landing place. A mirror. A reminder of who I am when the world gets noisy and the days get long. And maybe, just maybe, this post is your reminder too.

    When Life Pulls You Away

    Over the past few months, I’ve been stretched in more ways than I expected. Between work demands, family responsibilities, the physical and emotional healing after my car accident, and the daily pressure of simply keeping things together—I’ve felt disconnected from myself. The version of me who dreams, reflects, creates, and feels deeply… she got quiet.

    And I want to say this for anyone who needs it: if life has pulled you away from something you love, it doesn’t mean you failed. It means you’re human. And that’s okay.

    There Is Wisdom in the Pause

    For a while, I felt guilty for stepping away from writing. But the truth is, some silences are sacred. We grow in the in-between. We heal in the hush.

    That pause gave me space to grieve, to reflect, to rest. And in that stillness, I learned to honor my capacity—not just my goals. I realized that not every chapter has to be productive; some just need to be lived.

    Writing Is My Return

    Each time I write, I feel a little more like myself. Not the “perfect” version. Not the busy, accomplished one. Just me. Present. Honest. Enough.

    Words remind me that I still have a voice. That healing doesn’t mean I have to be whole—it just means I’m willing to keep showing up.

    This space—Awakened Living—has always been about more than inspiration. It’s about connection. Truth. The quiet courage to live fully and openly, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

    Looking Ahead

    I’m stepping back into this space with fresh intention and an open heart. You can expect more stories, reflections, and behind-the-scenes glimpses into the next chapters of my life and creative work.

    Here’s what I’m excited to share in the coming weeks:

    • Reflections on starting over and reclaiming yourself
    • Exploring the space where faith, doubt, and healing coexist
    • Creative healing practices, journaling prompts, and inspiration
    • Updates on my journey with AYA Rose Design Co. and Serenity Rose Co.

    💬 Reflection Prompt

    What part of yourself have you been missing lately? What’s one small way you can reconnect this week?

    Pause. Reflect. Write it down. Let this be your invitation to come home to yourself.

    With warmth and gratitude,


    Rose Alicia

  • Motherhood, Memory, and Moving On

    Motherhood, Memory, and Moving On

    As Mother’s Day approaches, many of us feel a quiet stirring inside—a mix of joy, nostalgia, and maybe even sadness. It’s a day that can bring warmth and celebration, but also reflection and grief.

    Whether you’re a mother, missing your mother, healing your relationship with her, or mourning what never was, this time of year touches something deep in the heart. And if you’re a mother missing your child—for whatever reason that separates you—know that your ache is valid, your love is not forgotten, and you are not alone.

    There are moments—quiet, fleeting, sometimes triggered by a scent, a song, or an old photograph—that take us back to the beginning of our journey as mothers. They remind us who we were before we had children. And sometimes, they remind us of all the ways we lost pieces of ourselves along the way.

    Motherhood changes everything. It stretches your heart, your mind, and your capacity for pain and joy. It teaches you to love in a way that defies logic—and to worry in ways that never quite go away. But perhaps one of the most complex parts of being a mother isn’t just raising your children—it’s letting go of the person you once were, and finding her again after the seasons shift.

    As the years pass, the memories begin to blur. I find myself forgetting the details I thought I’d hold forever—the sound of their baby cries, the way their tiny fingers wrapped around mine, the exact words they said that once made me laugh until I cried. I forget where I placed things… and sometimes, where I placed parts of myself.

    There are years where Mother’s Day feels heavier than others. For me, there are moments I wish I could go back—hold my child just a little longer, speak softer, or pause life long enough to truly be there. I did what I could with the tools I had at the time, but some days, guilt still creeps in.

    Missing your child—whether through distance, death, disagreement, or time—is a grief that doesn’t show on the outside. But it’s real. And I see you, because I carry it too.

    It’s not just age. It’s the weight of everything we carry. The unspoken grief. The mental load. The worry. The exhaustion. The years we gave, sometimes without even realizing how much of ourselves we were handing over piece by piece.

    And yet—I wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.

    But moving on is something we don’t talk about enough. Moving on from the roles we outgrow. From guilt. From old wounds. From the version of motherhood we imagined to the one we actually lived. It takes courage to say: I did my best with what I knew. I made mistakes. I lost time. But I loved with everything I had.

    If you’re reading this and carrying sadness over what you didn’t do, what you forgot, or what didn’t go the way you planned—this is your permission to breathe. To grieve what’s gone, but not to dwell in it. To remember that you’re still becoming. That moving on isn’t abandoning the past—it’s allowing the future to unfold with more grace.

    Ways to Honor Motherhood This Week

    If Mother’s Day feels heavy, here are small ways to honor your journey with tenderness:

    • Write a letter to your younger mom self.
    • Light a candle for a child or mother you miss.
    • Take 10 minutes to rest without guilt.
    • Frame a photo that reminds you of joy.
    • Call someone who mothered you—biological or not.

    Reflection Prompt:

    What part of your motherhood journey have you been afraid to release—and what would it feel like to let it go with love, instead of guilt?

    A Letter to Other Moms


    You are not defined by your mistakes or what you’ve forgotten. You are made of the love you’ve given, the quiet strength you’ve shown, and the tears you’ve cried in private. Whether you’re raising little ones, watching them grow from afar, or grieving the ones you’ve lost—you are still a mother. And you are enough.

    With love and gentleness,


    Rose Alicia

  • Are We a Help or a Hindrance? How Our Adult Actions Shape Our Children

    Are We a Help or a Hindrance? How Our Adult Actions Shape Our Children

    When we think about raising children, we often focus on the obvious things—providing food, shelter, education, and love. We try to teach good manners, encourage kindness, and hope they grow into strong, capable adults. But what we don’t always see—what quietly slips through the cracks—is the way our daily behaviors, words, and even our silences shape their world, sometimes more than any lesson we try to teach.

    Children are mirrors.


    They watch us more than they listen. They absorb how we respond to stress, how we talk about ourselves, how we treat others, and how we handle mistakes. They see if we carry resentment or offer forgiveness. They notice if we give up on our dreams or pursue them with hope. They pick up on whether we live in fear or in courage.

    Many of us don’t realize that the way we live becomes the blueprint for how they will navigate their own lives.

    I can speak to this from experience.


    Looking back, I realize that I was often so busy providing everything my children needed — the food, the clothing, the opportunities — that sometimes I wasn’t as present in other ways. I was preoccupied with life, with stress, with keeping everything together for my partner, my children, and my family.


    I was running on autopilot most days, juggling responsibilities, and in the middle of all that, I forgot that I was a person too — not just a provider, but a soul who needed tending.

    There were moments when my children needed more than just the things I could give them — they needed my full attention, my softness, my calm.


    And though I loved them deeply, sometimes I was too overwhelmed to notice.


    The truth is, I was doing the best I could with what I had — but stress sometimes made me let important things slip through my fingers.


    And now, when I hear them recalling certain memories, there’s a quiet ache inside me — knowing that while I gave them so much, I missed opportunities to simply be with them too.

    When we criticize ourselves in front of them, we teach them how to talk to themselves.
    When we avoid difficult conversations, we show them that discomfort should be feared rather than faced.
    When we lose our temper without apology, we teach them that anger is stronger than love.
    When we chase perfection, we set them up to believe that anything less than perfect is failure.
    When we neglect self-care, we send the message that everyone else’s needs are more important than their own.

    And yet—
    When we admit mistakes and take responsibility, we model humility.
    When we prioritize emotional well-being, we teach self-respect.
    When we keep dreaming even after setbacks, we show them resilience.
    When we show kindness to others and to ourselves, we teach them what real compassion looks like.

    We don’t have to be perfect. (In fact, pretending we are is one of the worst things we can do.)
    But we do have to be mindful.
    Mindful that our everyday choices—how we handle a bad day, how we greet a neighbor, how we sit quietly with our own sadness—matter.

    The truth is, we are either helping or hindering our children every day.
    Not because we mean to hurt them, but because every unconscious action plants seeds—some seeds of strength, some seeds of doubt.
    And while we can’t control every outcome, we can ask ourselves:

    • Am I showing them how to love themselves as they are?
    • Am I living the kind of life I would hope for them?
    • Am I being the safe space they can trust when the world feels heavy?

    If the answer isn’t always yes—that’s okay.
    Awareness is a powerful starting place.
    Change doesn’t happen in giant leaps; it happens in small, steady moments where we choose a little better, speak a little softer, forgive a little faster.

    Our children don’t need perfect parents.
    They need present ones.
    Ones who are willing to grow, just like they are.

    Final Thought:

    Take a moment today to notice one small habit you can shift—not to be a “better” parent, but to be a truer example of growth, resilience, and love. Little by little, these are the pieces that build a legacy far more powerful than any lecture ever could.

    With heart, grace, and growth,


    Rose Alicia