I meet with my therapist a few days ago. It was one of those appointments where the words that were in my head spilled out before I had time to catch them, to think twice. We were talking about my parents and parts of my upbringing.. and honestly, as soon as the conversation was over and we ended the session, something immediately heavy settled in my chest. Guilt. Ah guilt. A word, a feeling I know all too well.

It wasn’t that I had lied when talking. If anything, I am finally (and painfully) telling the truth — the reality I had lived, felt, and carried with me for so long. And yet, the guilt was there like a neon sign brightly buzzing in my face. I replayed our conversation over and over in my head — I felt like I should have said something better, something softer. Maybe I was being too harsh. Maybe I was remembering things wrong. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. After all, that’s my family, those are my parents..

I spoke about parts of my childhood and growing up. And while talking, I recognized that while there were absolutely difficult times, it wasn’t all bad. Every moment, holiday, vacation, memory — they weren’t all negative experiences. As a matter of fact, we had plenty of happy, good times. Laughter.. warmth.. times when things felt normal. I don’t deny those moments existed. But acknowledging the good doesn’t erase the bad, just as recognizing the hard times doesn’t mean the good times weren’t real. Yet still, that guilt lingers, as if speaking one side somehow betrays the other.

That’s the volley, isn’t it? The back-and-forth between truth and doubt, between honesty and that conditioned instinct to protect those who raised us. Who we loved and love, and who were supposed to love us back.

Why Does Guilt Follow Speaking the Truth?

For so many of us, talking about family — especially in a way that isn’t glowing or grateful — feels like breaking some sort of unspoken rule. We’re taught that family is sacred, that speaking ill of them is disloyal, ungrateful, or even cruel. That we should love, honor, and respect them purely for the titles they bear. But what happens when the truth isn’t flattering? When your reality doesn’t match the picture-perfect version of family you were supposed to have? The family that the outside world saw.

This guilt, my guilt, comes from years and years of conditioning. From the idea that parents do their best, that they deserve respect no matter what, that we must be the ones misunderstanding things. It comes from society’s emphasis on forgiveness, on brushing things under the rug for the sake of peace. And while part of me believes that most parents are doing the best they can, parts of me also feel that there are and were so many moments that could’ve been changed by the simplest word or action.

There’s also the fear of judgment — from others and quite honestly, from ourselves. We worry that if we say that negative thing, people will assume we are being mean, ungrateful, dramatic — or one of my very favorites, too sensitive. Sometimes, we even gaslight ourselves into believing that we are exaggerating our own pain. Doubt creeps in, making us wonder if we actually are misremembering, overreacting, or being unfair — convincing ourselves that maybe it wasn’t really that bad. This internal battle makes it so difficult to trust our own experiences and emotions.

I’ve said this before and I will say it again and again — healing doesn’t happen in silence. Growth doesn’t come from pretending. Speaking the truth isn’t an act of betrayal — it is an act of self-respect.

It’s Okay to Hold Two Truths at Once

I struggle the most when I think and speak about my mother. While I can’t pretend that everything was perfect, I also can’t ignore that there were good moments, that there was love. That battle, wanting to acknowledge the hurt while not wanting to erase the good, sits in the forefront of my mind.

What I have to remind myself, over and over, is this: it’s possible to hold two truths at once.

• My mother did things that hurt me. That is true.
• My mother also had good qualities. That is also true.

One doesn’t cancel out the other. Speaking about the harm doesn’t mean I don’t see and recognize the good. And just because there was good doesn’t mean I have to minimize the painful moments.

It’s easy to think that ultimately we have to pick a side. We either love unconditionally, forgive, and more forward.. or we remain stuck with our anger and resentment that makes us cold and bitter. But guess what? Healing exists in the middle ground. It’s okay to grieve the family you wish you had while appreciating the moments of love that did exist. It’s okay to set boundaries and still feel affection for the people who hurt you.

You don’t have to justify your truth to anyone. You don’t have to explain away your pain or make excuses for those who caused it.

Your Story Deserves to Be Told—Without a Disclaimer

Have you ever felt this kind of guilt? If the answer is yes, ask yourself this: Would you expect someone else to downplay their pain to make others comfortable? Would you tell a friend to water down their truth so they don’t hurt anyone’s feelings?

You are allowed to speak honestly about your life, even when it involves family. You don’t have to deny your truth, make excuses (for them or for yourselves), or make it softer, less. You don’t owe anyone a version of your story that anything other than what really happened.

Reflection Questions

If this post resonates with you, take a moment to reflect and ask yourself:

• Have you ever felt guilty for telling the truth about your family? If so, what triggered that feeling?
• How can you balance acknowledging both the good and the bad in your relationships?
• How would it feel to let go of the guilt and just allow yourself to tell your story?

Speaking the truth is rarely easy, especially when that truth is heavy. But you know what else isn’t easy? Carrying the weight of unspoken stories, unspoken pain. If you’re struggling with guilt, please know that you’re not alone. And more importantly — you deserve to own your story and have permission to let that guilt go.