There’s a grief that doesn’t come from death, but from absence — the absence of emotional safety, of real connection, of being seen. This blog isn’t about vilification. It’s about truth-telling — the kind of truth that’s been locked behind closed doors and polite family photos for decades.
Shane and Daisy Mitchell — my biological parents — gave me life, but not a map. They gave me food, shelter, and sometimes a smile, but rarely emotional support. Their parenting was a balancing act of authoritarian rule and emotional detachment. If there was affection, it was transactional. If there was interest, it often came with a string attached.
Growing up, I raised myself. Emotionally. Practically. Spiritually. I was the quiet observer, the older brother who stepped in while my parents stepped out. My mother’s temper made her voice louder than her presence. Her anger was often misplaced — projected onto me with phrases like, "See what you boys did!" Her emotions dominated the house, but they didn’t connect us.
My father? He was the silent witness. The man in the room who rarely intervened. He observed chaos and called it normal. I don’t remember him asking me how I was feeling unless it served a purpose. His silence echoed louder than any argument. He was not cruel — just emotionally unavailable, often choosing comfort over conflict.
What’s more jarring is the performative contrast. They praised me publicly, especially when I played the responsible son or the successful brother. But forget my birthday while overseas for Zach’s? That happened. Drop off bins of childhood photos like they were overdue library books? That, too. And then not attend my wedding, citing a second wedding that would be offered later in years as a “vow renewal” no one would care about?
That moment still lingers. We moved the wedding date sooner for personal reasons, and invited them. They chose not to come. Later, when we mentioned doing something bigger down the line, they flipped the script — calling it a vow renewal. The message was clear: this moment that meant everything to me, meant nothing to them. So I didn’t invite anyone from my side. No family. No friends. Just me, standing alone on my side of the altar. And still, somehow, they managed to make the day about them.
Those were not just oversights. They were emotional betrayals. And they formed the bedrock of my adult detachment — a survival strategy dressed up as independence.
Their communication style is a masterclass in passive needs: reaching out only when they want something, rarely initiating connection for connection’s sake. Guilt becomes a language. Minimization becomes a shield. Accountability? Evaporates under pressure.
As I grew older, I realized that I wasn’t just parenting myself — I was shielding myself. From their reactivity. From their guilt trips. From the sting of being an afterthought in the very home I helped keep together. My early instincts to people-please weren’t just habits — they were emotional armor.
But here’s what’s changed: I no longer wear that armor for them. I’ve set boundaries. I’ve accepted that their love was conditional, and their parenting immature — not in age, but in emotional development.
Now, I protect my peace. I let silence stand where manipulation used to enter. I don’t chase calls that never come or reach for validation from sources that have none to give.
I’m healing by remembering this: I am not unlovable because they couldn’t love fully. I’m not broken because they were emotionally brittle.
Their legacy may have shaped me — but it doesn’t define me.
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