The Only Thing I Ever Failed At

While much of my writing centers on practical topics—legal matters, life skills, handwriting, and human behavior—I also share my personal stories. Not for sympathy. Not for spectacle. But because I’ve found that when one person speaks plainly, others feel less alone. My hope is that in reading this, someone else finds clarity, compassion for themselves, and the courage to grow beyond what tried to contain them.

My life has been far from quiet. I’ve built businesses from scratch, survived careers that could kill a person’s peace, and risen from financial ashes more than once. I’ve loved boldly, lost deeply, and taken chances that left bruises. And yet, for all of that, I never considered myself a failure—until I came face-to-face with the one relationship I could not mend: the one with my mother.

People saw us and thought we were close. We bantered, they said. We were “a hoot,” they said. She’d deliver a sarcastic jab, and I’d volley one back, quick and sharp. It looked like chemistry. What it really was—was strategy. For me, at least. My humor was a shield forged from years of needing to deflect what hurt. When someone has power over you and they weaponize their words, you learn to fight fire with irony. You learn to laugh instead of cry, to cut instead of crumble.

But we weren’t close. Not by my standards. Not by any standard that resembles true connection.

When my mother aged and her world shrank to the quiet of the countryside, I saw what I thought was an opportunity. A door cracked open to something we’d never had. I imagined she’d come live with me, and in the calm of shared space, we’d find a rhythm. If not love, then at least something decent. Respectful. Adult. Kind.

That was nine years ago.

I was wrong. And I am not fond of being wrong.

What I had not yet fully understood then—but I see now with painful clarity—is that my mother is abusive. Her cruelty isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t throw dishes or scream across dinner tables. It's more efficient than that. It’s in the silence, the sarcasm, the absence of nurturing, the neglect so subtle you question your own expectations.

I used to think I was too sensitive. That I had a thin skin or a dramatic streak. I believed I was difficult to love or too needy. I worked hard to be witty, competent, self-contained. I built a life that required nothing from her. And when I invited her into that life, I thought it would be safe. I thought I was strong enough, grown enough, wise enough to finally fix the gap between us.

But no amount of adult wisdom can heal a relationship that only one person wants to heal.

And the signs were there from the beginning. Two memories stay with me like scars that never quite faded.

The Red Suitcase

I was in elementary school when I was invited for a sleepover on a school night—a rare thrill. My instructions were simple: bring a packed bag to school, ride the bus home with my friend, and return the next day. I carried my little red Samsonite suitcase proudly to class, parked it at the front of the room, and counted down the hours.

But when I opened it that night, joy turned to humiliation. My mother had packed my most hated dress—one I’d begged not to wear—and the suitcase was full of mold and mildew. My friend’s mother tried her best to help. She turned the dress inside out, sprinkled it with baby powder, and hung it on the back porch overnight. But by morning, I was sick. The smell clung to me, and the mold—something I was severely allergic to—made my skin itch and my stomach turn.

I wore that dress to school, miserable and reeking, and I don’t remember the rest of that day. I only remember getting home, ripping it off, and throwing it in our trash barrel. That red suitcase went in too. We didn’t have trash service—someone would come to burn the barrel and haul away the ashes. Neither the dress nor the suitcase was ever mentioned again. My mother never asked what happened to them. And I never told her.

Because even then, I understood: my hurt was not her concern.

The Green Dress

In third grade, our class put on a Thanksgiving play. The girls playing Native Americans were to wear brown dresses with white fringe. Simple. Every girl had one—except me.

My mother said we couldn’t afford brown material, but she bought green. She followed the pattern, but I was the only child on stage in the wrong color. When my teacher saw it, she told me she was disappointed. I heard whispers from the parents. And though no one said it outright, I knew I didn’t match.

I just wanted to match the rhythm of my group—to blend in, not stand out like a wrong note in a children’s choir.

That’s what neglect looks like. It doesn’t scream—it shrugs.

These may seem like small things to the untrained eye. But for a child, they are loud. They speak of emotional absence, disregard, even disdain. My basic needs weren’t just unmet—they were treated like inconveniences. And I grew up trying to become someone easy to love, someone too independent to disappoint.

That pattern followed me into adulthood.

Forgiveness, I’ve learned, is sacred. But reconciliation? That’s a mutual contract. Both people have to sign it.

What happened instead was this: I opened my sanctuary to someone who had never stopped seeing me as an object to control, critique, or dismiss. I dropped my guard out of hope. And in return, I let an old pattern re-enter my space—this time dressed in the soft disguise of “just helping her out.”

Hope is holy. But hope without boundaries is a blueprint for heartbreak.

There are many stories I could tell—some worse, some unforgivable. But I don’t need to itemize abuse to prove it was real. All I need to say is this: I welcomed someone into my life believing we could build something new. Instead, the same damage found a new setting. And that is where my failure lives—not in the loving, not in the trying, but in the misjudgment of what was possible.

This isn’t about bitterness. It’s about clarity.
This isn’t about blame. It’s about limits.

I failed at one thing: I believed that love, effort, and timing could rewrite history.
I believed that someone who hurt me as a child might finally see me as a whole person.
I believed I could turn pain into peace—if I just gave it one more try.

But what I’ve learned is this: even love has terms and conditions.
Even family must earn access to your soul.
Even a daughter has the right to say, “Not in my home. Not in my heart. Not anymore.”

In the end, I didn’t fail her. I failed me.
I let hope talk me into unlocking the gates I had built for a reason.
I invited harm back in—not out of weakness, but out of faith that this time could be different.

It wasn’t.

And now I know:
Protecting your peace isn’t selfish.
Naming abuse isn’t cruel.
And walking away from someone who gave you life—when they can’t give you respect—is not failure.
It’s survival.

And maybe, finally, success.