From Survival to Self-Care: A Journey of Healing

From the moment of conception, I was an inconvenience. My father, despite being in a two-year relationship with my mother, decided that my existence was unwanted. When she refused to abort the pregnancy, he simply walked away—choosing another woman over the family he had helped create. My mother, already grieving the untimely death of her own mother, now found herself heartbroken and abandoned, left to navigate pregnancy alone.

Her suffering was profound, and I believe I felt it, even in the womb. She was mourning not just her mother, but the dream of partnership with a man who, for the first time, hadn’t been abusive—until he was. Her pregnancy was filled with isolation and financial hardship, softened only by the kindness of a close friend who made sure I had the essentials. After my birth, we moved from place to place, sleeping on floors, accepting small gestures of generosity where we could. This was the beginning of trauma for me.

Many don’t realize that trauma doesn’t start with a harsh word or an unkind touch—it starts in the womb. It embeds itself in the body, shaping the way we experience love, safety, and self-worth before we even take our first breath.

At three years old, my mother became pregnant again—this time by a man willing to provide her with shelter, but only for his child, not for me. Desperate to give us both a chance, she wrote to my grandmother for help. What was supposed to be a temporary arrangement turned into fifteen years. But my mother didn’t know that at the time. From the moment I was handed over, my grandmother never intended to give me back.

I grew up knowing that neither of my parents wanted me—at least, that’s what I was told. I was never called beautiful. I was never told I was loved. I was never hugged. Instead, I was reminded that I was a burden, that I was the opposite of smart, the opposite of worthy. And on top of the emotional wounds, there was the pain no child should ever endure—the sexual trauma inflicted by my grandmother’s husband.

I hated my life. I hated my childhood. I felt unloved, unlovable, and undeserving of kindness. And yet, here I am—41 years old, still standing, still healing, and finally learning the truth.

For 38 years, I believed my mother gave me away, that she moved on without me. But I now know that she mourned my absence every single day. She was manipulated, lied to, and silenced. And I—I was deprived of the love that was always meant for me.

The Journey to Self-Care

For most of my life, I dedicated myself to taking care of others. It was the one thing that brought me peace, that gave me purpose. And in a way, it saved me. Massage therapy became more than a career—it became a refuge. With every touch, with every client, I was offering the comfort I had never received. I was giving the healing I didn’t know I needed myself.

But now, I am ready to go deeper.

This Women’s History Month, I choose myself. I choose to honor the little girl who never heard the words "I love you." I choose to rewrite the narrative that told me I was unworthy. I choose to nurture myself—not just through the care I give others, but through the care I finally allow myself to receive.

To every woman reading this: we deserve more. More love, more care, more tenderness. We deserve to be held, to be seen, to be nurtured. If no one ever told you—you are wanted. You are worthy. You are enough.

And so, as I embark on this journey of deeper self-care, I invite you to do the same. Whether it's through stillness, movement, healing touch, or the simple act of giving yourself grace—choose yourself.

Because we are not just survivors. We are healers. We are nurturers. And most importantly, we are deserving of the same love we so freely give to others.

Your Invitation to Heal

This Women’s History Month, take a moment to reflect: How are you nurturing yourself? How are you showing up for the little girl inside you who still needs love?

Let’s walk this journey together.

HAPPY Women’s History Month

Kenisha Ama'anii 🫂