Beyond Blood: Cause and Effect
We don't choose our parents, but we make our decisions.
Children don’t choose their parents. Given the chance, many children would say that they wish they could. Tag, you're it.
First of all, let me say this: Consider yourself blessed if you can have children. Many women can't. Now, moving on to the story.
Children are not mistakes, accidents or dollar signs. Birth control does exist but you were only thinking about having a good time.
Many parents don't show love for their child and this is why most children either end up on the wrong side of the law. They become gang members, murderers and in some cases, serial killers.
Children should have a special bond with their parents. You cant call yourself a parent and hate your child at the same time. Sometimes, children can do things that hurt you to your very soul, bring you to your knees or make you feel like your heart has been ripped out of your chest.
But you cant be mad at your child for doing something you did in the past because its called "lead by example". If you don't lead the right example, what do you expect your child to do? The answer: Everything that they saw you do and then some.
Old folks didn't play around. Discipline was serious. You do something wrong, you get a whooping. Plain and simple. When you did something wrong, you had to get a switch off the tree. If you picked a small one, your parents would go to the tree and pick a bigger one.
Today, my generation is always told we have a mouth/attitude problem. But where did we get it from? Both of our parents. Each parent blames the other parent but that's not the case. You are your daddy's child. You are your moma's child. People joke around like that and laugh about it but when its said out of hatred, its not funny anymore. DNA comes from both people so a child has tendencies of each parent.
But what parents need to know, from the generation of 40 and up is this: what you view as disrespect is our opinion; ya’ll just disagree with it, you want to be right and you never apologize for being wrong. Everyone isn't right all the time and nobody is wrong all the time either.
But some parents will find a way to say I told you so by doing something that they feel is the best way to do something. Then, when the child's way worked from the beginning, they take the credit.
We don't choose our parents. There are so many instances where we say that we wish we could. 85% of us hate the people that brought us into this world. Its because of the way that have they treated us.
Here are some examples: Claiming other children as their biological children. Telling other parents that those children are other relatives. Oh, that's my nephew. Oh, that's my niece. That's not your brother or sister. I just dated their mother or father. All of these statements I am making have been said in families; no one ever brings it to light.
Parents shouldn't trust everyone around their children. The man/woman in your life is looking at your children. It doesn't matter if you have daughters or sons; they are still looking. A child molester has no preference. There was once a time that you didn't have to worry about that but today, its something all parents are afraid of.
Food for thought: We didn't choose our parents. Our parents chose us. Our connection can be distant (far apart) or second to none (very close).
About the Creator
Nerissha Hunt
I am a unique writer who thinks outside the box. My writing is based on experience.
I write to inform and educate others about the real world because life is not a fantasy. So, when you read my stories, expect nothing less than the truth.
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For the longest time, I believed my life was simply paused. Not broken. Not finished. Just waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the right person. Waiting for something—anything—to arrive and change everything. I didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for, but I was sure it would come. People always said things like “It’ll get better” or “Your time will come”, and I clung to those words like promises written in invisible ink. I believed that if I endured long enough, life would eventually reward my patience. So I waited. I waited quietly, because I didn’t want to be a burden. I waited politely, because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I waited silently, because I didn’t even know how to explain what was wrong. From the outside, my life looked acceptable. I functioned. I showed up. I smiled when it was expected of me. I laughed at jokes that didn’t reach my heart. I answered “I’m fine” so often that it started to feel like muscle memory. But inside, something was eroding. Every day felt heavier than the last, like I was carrying a weight that kept growing while no one was looking. I woke up tired, went to bed tired, and spent the hours in between pretending I wasn’t. There was a quiet exhaustion that sleep couldn’t touch—a tiredness that came from constantly hoping for relief that never arrived. I thought suffering had to be loud to be real. I thought pain needed witnesses to matter. Mine had neither. There was no dramatic breaking point, no single moment when everything fell apart. Instead, it unraveled slowly. Almost gently. Like a thread pulled so gradually you don’t notice the fabric weakening until it’s too late. I kept telling myself, Just hold on a little longer. Surely someone would notice. Surely someone would step in. Surely life wouldn’t let me keep feeling this way forever. But life did. And then one day—an ordinary day that didn’t announce its importance—I realized something that changed everything. Nobody was coming. That realization didn’t arrive with clarity or relief. It arrived like grief. Heavy. Sharp. Unforgiving. I remember sitting alone, staring at nothing in particular, and feeling the truth settle into my bones. There would be no rescue. No sudden turning point delivered by someone else’s effort. No moment where everything magically aligned and lifted me out of my own life. It wasn’t that people didn’t care. It was that everyone was busy surviving their own storms. I had been waiting for someone to save me from a life that only I was living. And for a while, that realization shattered me. I felt abandoned by the world, betrayed by hope itself. I questioned every prayer I had whispered into the dark, every moment I had chosen patience over action. I wondered if I had misunderstood life completely—if the promises I believed in were never meant for people like me. I mourned the version of myself who thought endurance alone was enough. There is a special kind of loneliness that comes from realizing your pain is invisible. That no matter how heavy it feels to you, the world keeps moving at the same pace. Bills still need to be paid. Responsibilities still demand attention. Smiles are still expected. So I kept going. But something inside me had cracked open. Once you see the truth, you can’t unsee it. And the truth was this: waiting had become my hiding place. Hope, without action, had become an excuse to stay small. I had been standing still, convincing myself that stillness was strength. It wasn’t. Saving myself didn’t begin with confidence. It began with fear. Fear of staying the same. Fear of waking up ten years later in the same emotional place. Fear of realizing that I had wasted my own life waiting for permission to live it. I didn’t suddenly become brave. I became tired of being helpless. The first steps were almost embarrassing in their simplicity. There was nothing poetic about them. No montage-worthy transformation. Just small decisions that felt enormous at the time. Getting out of bed even when my body begged me not to. Choosing one task, then another, then another. Letting myself admit—quietly—that I was not okay. Some days, saving myself meant setting boundaries that made other people uncomfortable. I learned how often my exhaustion came from overextending myself to earn love, approval, or relevance. Saying no felt selfish at first. It felt wrong. But it also felt like oxygen. Other days, saving myself meant sitting alone with my feelings instead of numbing them. No distractions. No pretending. Just honesty. That was harder than any physical effort I had ever made. Facing your own thoughts can feel like standing in front of a mirror that refuses to lie. I began to understand something no one had taught me: healing is not linear, and it is rarely beautiful. It’s messy. Inconsistent. Frustrating. Some days feel like progress, others feel like failure. But both are part of the same road. There were days I missed the comfort of waiting. Waiting meant responsibility belonged to someone else. Taking control meant accepting that my life—every imperfect part of it—was in my hands. That was terrifying. But it was also freeing. As I slowly rebuilt myself, I noticed something else. Not everyone wanted to walk with me into this new version of myself. Some people preferred the me who needed saving. The me who was easier to control, easier to dismiss, easier to define. Outgrowing people hurts. Outgrowing places hurts. Outgrowing old versions of yourself hurts most of all. But staying the same hurts longer. I lost connections I thought were permanent. I stepped away from spaces that no longer fit who I was becoming. Loneliness returned—but this time, it was different. This loneliness felt honest. It didn’t come from abandonment; it came from alignment. I learned that being alone while growing is far healthier than being surrounded while shrinking. Strength, I discovered, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t demand recognition. Strength shows up quietly, day after day, in the choices you make when no one is watching. It shows up when you keep going even though the results are slow. When you forgive yourself for falling back into old habits. When you choose patience with yourself instead of punishment. There were setbacks—many of them. I stumbled. I doubted myself. I wondered if I was doing everything wrong. But this time, I didn’t collapse and wait for someone else to fix the damage. I picked myself up. Again and again. And something unexpected happened as I kept choosing myself: the world didn’t suddenly become easier, but I became stronger. Problems that once felt unbearable became manageable. Pain that once consumed me became something I could sit with without losing myself. 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You were doing the best you could with what you knew. But you don’t have to wait anymore. Sometimes, saving yourself doesn’t mean changing everything. It means choosing yourself once—then choosing yourself again tomorrow. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that the moment nobody came was the moment your life truly began.Start writing...
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