True Story. Just moments before writing this, I was sitting in my car balling on the phone to my husband as I slipped in words of grief between cries.

It's a grief I've become intimately familiar with throughout my healing journey, but this time, it caught me off guard. Today, I grieve the loss of chaos.

The Unexpected Cost of Stability

Before you dismiss my words as madness, let me clarify:

Of course we want stability in life, but stability–when healing from a family dynamic that thrives on chaos–costs us the illusion of love. 

It's the final realization that the love you thought you were receiving was tethered to crisis and dysfunction.

The Illusion of Love:

Growing up, chaos was our currency. Our family thrived on it. "Family comes first," they said, but what they really meant was that crisis came first. My needs only mattered when they reached a crisis level. I learned to escalate to be heard, to wait until I was in crisis to voice my needs.

For so long, I felt loved by their heroic efforts to swoop in and save the day during my crises. But now, in the absence of chaos, I grieve the loss of that feeling of love. Stability has meant being deprioritized because I'm not in crisis—a constant reminder of my perceived unlovability.

The Choice to Heal:

There's a choice to be made: settle for the codependent illusion of love and corrode away on the inside, or heal, become stable, and face the loss of a parent's love you've longed for your whole life. Stability costs us something, but it doesn't make us unlovable. It makes us healthy, whole, and available for genuine love.

Conclusion:

I never thought I'd say that I grieve the loss of chaos in my life. But that little girl inside me, longing for parents who love and respond to her, grieves the loss of chaos—the last vestige of earned love.

If you've experienced something similar, reach out. I'd love to hear your experiences of loss and healing. Stay tuned for next week's post, where we'll explore how this dynamic manifests in our adult relationships.