Born Tired: Where Survival Meets Healing

Eirene: [00:00:00] I don't know about you, but birthdays have never felt easy for me. There's something about them that can feel simple on the surface, a date, a reason to celebrate. But for some of us, birthdays carry more than that. They hold memory, absence, the awareness of what was there and what wasn't.

I've never had a natural relationship with my birthday. The days leading up to it feel heavy in a way that's hard to explain. There's a kind of tension that builds up in my body, like I'm waiting for it to pass, and then when it finally does, when it's over, I feel relief, like I can finally breathe again.

I was born on Mother's Day and for a long time that has felt like a contradiction I've been carrying because when I think about what Mother's Day represents, nurturing, presence, care, I also find myself sitting with a different truth.

The reality of what it felt like growing up, not being [00:01:00] celebrated, never being centered, or being held in a way a child needs to be held. There are only a few birthdays. I remember clearly, small moments that stand out because there wasn't many like them. And over time, I think my body learns something, that being celebrated wasn't something to expect, and being seen wasn't something to feel comfortable with. So even now when my husband and my children celebrate me, when there's love, effort and intention, there's still a part of me that doesn't know how to receive it. A part of me that wants to smile and a part of me that wants to disappear at the same time. I think that's what I've been sitting with this year, what it means to be born on a day that represents something I didn't fully experience. What it means to carry that into adulthood, into motherhood, and how those early impressions stay with you. Not [00:02:00] always in ways that are obvious, but in how we experience joy, attention and being seen.

This is Born Tired Where Survival Meets Healing. A podcast for those of us who grew up in survival mode but are ready to heal and speak our truth. I'm Eirene, a cycle breaker learning what peace feels like after years of survival. Every episode is an invitation to rest inside your truth, to feel seen, and to remember you were never alone. This is what it sounds like when silence finally breaks.

Before we begin, I wanna share a gentle reminder. This episode includes reflections on childhood experiences, emotional neglect, and the complexities of the mother-daughter relationship. Please listen in a way that feels safe for you. If at any point you need to pause or step away, honor that. Your wellbeing matters more than finishing the episode. You are not alone. Take care of yourself while you listen.

I am turning 45 this year. My birthday is on May [00:03:00] 10th, and this year it lands on a Sunday, like the year I was born. Mother's Day, and there's something about that, that has been bringing up more than I expected. The last few weeks. Birthdays have never felt easy for me. The days leading up to it feel heavy, and I find myself just wanting to get through it. And then May 11th comes, and I feel this sense of relief, like I could finally breathe again.

Growing up, that always felt ironic to me because I've carried this understanding for a long time that if my mother had been able to choose a different life for herself, she would've chosen one without children. And I say this without judgment. I don't believe everyone is meant to be a mother.

I think it's okay for someone to choose a childless life. That kind of honesty would actually prevent a lot of pain. But what I've had to live with is what it means to be born to someone who didn't want or couldn't fully [00:04:00] step into that role. My relationship with my mother didn't just shape how I experience birthdays. It shaped how I understand closeness and what it feels like to need something and not receive it.

I remember being a child and wanting something very simple, a hug, comfort to feel held. And I remember asking for it, literally asking to be hugged by her and being turned away. Those kind of moments stay with you. It doesn't just pass. It becomes a feeling your body remembers. Your body learns something about what it means to need. It learns that reaching for comfort might lead to rejection. That closeness isn't something you can rely on. And something that I came to understand later was that it wasn't that my mother wasn't capable of affection. I saw that she was, just not with me. And that created a different kind of confusion, [00:05:00] because when something is completely absent, your mind can make sense of it in one way. But when it exists, just not for you, you don't just notice the difference. You start to internalize it. You start to believe something is wrong with you.

And at the same time, I was also the one protecting her, trying to manage the environment, trying to anticipate the chaos so I could adjust. So there was this dynamic where I was holding space for her while still needing someone to hold space for me. And that never really balanced out. That's a specific kind of experience to be both the one protecting and the one who was never protected.

And even as an adult, the impact of those experiences doesn't just disappear. It shows up in how safe it feels to lean on someone, how natural it feels to ask for comfort, how your body responds when you're offered something you once had to beg for.

I never noticed that I wasn't celebrated. As I started getting older I started [00:06:00] paying attention. And I noticed the difference between how my sibling's birthday was treated and how my birthday was treated. Especially by my father, he would make a big deal about my sibling's birthday. He always got them flowers and you know, it's something that stays with you. In all honesty, I always felt like I was an afterthought. I was never considered. And even now, those experiences live somewhere in me and the way I feel about things, the way I understand what it means to be truly seen. Not being celebrated does something to you. It shapes how you experience attention, how you receive love, how safe it feels to take up space.

And I think for me, it created this deep discomfort with being seen. When something isn't nurtured early, it doesn't just appear later because the environment changes. It stays in your nervous system. Now, as an adult, my husband and my children [00:07:00] celebrate me and I smile. I'm grateful, and I can recognize the love. But internally, there's a part of me that wants to disappear. That part hasn't fully caught up to the reality of my life now.

And I think this year feels heavier because of everything layered into it. My birthday, Mother's Day, and being no contact. it's made me think a lot about the last conversation I had with my mother. The last conversation I had with my mother was to tell her that I wasn't gonna be calling her anymore. I told her I couldn't do it anymore. I had to do what was best for my mental health and for my children. And she told me, she understood, she told me to take care of myself. And she told me she knew how much I had suffered. It was the first time I felt seen by my mother, and it also felt like she was giving me permission to let her go. So of course this upcoming birthday is bringing up a lot of emotions. There's a lot of sadness and anger. There are moments where I feel [00:08:00] so much was taken from me, moments I can't go back to and reclaim. Versions of myself that never got to feel celebrated or loved.

And then there's this part of me that almost laughs at the irony of it all. For my astrology people, they'll understand, because I was born under a Leo moon. For those who don't know astrology, a Leo moon is associated with warmth, with expression, with wanting to be seen, appreciated, and celebrated. There's a natural openness there. A desire to shine. And yet my experience growing up shaped something very different. It taught me to shrink, to stay quiet, to move through life without expecting recognition. So there's always been this tension inside me between what I came into this world with and what I learned I had to become to survive.

And I think that's what makes this birthday so emotional. It's not just about turning 45. It's about everything that birthdays [00:09:00] represent, what was missing, what I've had to learn, and what I'm still learning how to receive. And I think that's part of why being born on Mother's Day feels layered for me, because for some people it's a day of celebration, for others it carries grief, for some, it's about complicated relationships that don't fit into what the day is supposed to represent, and all of that is real. There isn't one way to experience it. For me, I've had to learn to relate to the day differently, to shift the focus from what I didn't receive, to what I'm able to give.

Because being a mother has changed me in ways I didn't expect. It became a catalyst for growth, for awareness, for choosing something different. I love being a mother. I love being able to show up for my children in ways that feel intentional, to create consistency, to respond with presence, and to give them something I didn't always [00:10:00] experience from a place of understanding what matters. That doesn't erase what I went through.

It doesn't remove the feelings that still come up sometimes, but it does create something new alongside it, something that didn't exist before. I am focused on allowing something different to exist in the present. And I think that's part of why moments like birthdays feel the way they do for me. Because it's not just about a day on the calendar. It's about what that day touches, what it brings back, what it reminds your body of, whether you have the words for it or not.

What I've come to understand over time is that birthdays are not just about getting older, they're emotional landmarks. They mark how we were seen, how we were held, how we were valued in spaces that were supposed to feel safe. And when those experiences are inconsistent or absent, the impact doesn't stay in childhood. It follows you. It shapes how you relate to attention, how you interpret care, how safe it [00:11:00] feels to be the center of something, even for a moment. I never really thought much about why my birthday felt the way it did. I just knew that it felt easier when it was over. But when I started looking at it more closely, I realized that it wasn't really about the day itself.

It was about what the day represented because when a child is consistently celebrated, it creates a kind of internal permission to take up space, to feel worthy of attention, and to exist without minimizing yourself. When that celebration is missing the absence becomes its own kind of wound.

You learn to move through life without expecting much, to downplay your needs to exist without asking to be acknowledged. And for me, that experience was deeply connected to being the scapegoat, because when you're placed in that role, you're not just overlooked, you're often misread. You become the one who is corrected more than affirmed, one who is held responsible more than [00:12:00] understood. Whose emotions are questioned instead of validated. And over time, that shapes how you see yourself. It creates a kind of internal narrative that says your presence is complicated. That your needs are excessive, and your emotions require adjustment. So when a day like your birthday comes around, a day, that naturally centers you, it can feel uncomfortable because it goes against everything your nervous system learned. It's asking you to receive something you were not conditioned to expect.

That's something I've had to understand in a very real way as a mother, because one of the things I'm most intentional about is making sure my children feel seen and celebrated, not just on their birthdays, but every day. Their birthdays matter to me. I pay attention to what they like, what makes them feel special, and what makes them feel recognized as individuals.

I want them to feel the anticipation, the excitement, that sense that their presence is [00:13:00] something worth honoring because I know what it feels like not to have that. But even beyond birthdays, I try to carry that awareness into everyday moments. I notice their efforts, I acknowledge their emotions. I listen when they speak because being seen isn't built in one day a year. It's built on consistency in the way you respond when nothing special is happening. And I think that's where a lot of generational patterns either continue or change.

Because when you grow up in an environment where attention is inconsistent or tied to certain roles, like being the easy one. The problem, the strong one, you learn to associate your worth with how well you fit that role, not with who you actually are.

And the scapegoat role carries a specific kind of weight because it places you in a position where you're both visible and unseen at the same time, visible in terms of scrutiny, invisible in terms of care. [00:14:00] And that creates confusion because attention is present, but it doesn't feel safe. So later in life, even when attention comes from a place of love, your body doesn't immediately register it that way. There's hesitation, resistance, and an urge to withdraw because you were never taught how to hold it. It's not just about the present moment. It's about everything that moment touches the past, the roles you carried, the ways you adapted, and at the same time, it becomes an opportunity to do something different in a conscious way. To notice what comes up, to acknowledge it without judgment and allow yourself to receive even if it feels uncomfortable.

Sometimes healing looks like staying present in a moment that once made you wanna disappear. Sometimes it looks like accepting love without fully knowing what to do with it yet. Sometimes it looks like recognizing that your discomfort has a history and that history deserves to be [00:15:00] understood, not pushed aside.

And as I've moved through motherhood, I realize something that feels important to name, making sure my children feel seen, doesn't erase what I experienced, but it does change what gets carried forward. It creates a different baseline, expectation, a different internal narrative for them, and that matters so much. The goal was never perfection. The goal was awareness and to interrupt patterns in a way that allows something new to exist.

Even if part of me is still learning how to stand in a moment that centers me without wanting to step out of it, and maybe that's what this birthday is really asking of me. To stay present long enough to allow something different. To begin, I find myself holding something that feels both simple and complex at the same time.

There is this reality of where I am now, the life I've built, the family I've created, and there is also this quiet presence of where I've been. Those two parts don't [00:16:00] cancel each other out. They exist together. I used to hope that one day certain days would stop carrying weight, that eventually my birthday could just feel like a celebration. Light easy and uncomplicated. But what I've come to understand is that healing doesn't erase emotional memory. It changes how you relate to it. There's a difference between being overwhelmed by something and being aware of it.

There's a difference between reacting automatically and choosing how you want to respond. And I think that's a space I'm in right now. I can feel the discomfort. I can feel the resistance that still lives in my body. The part of me that wants to move through the day quietly without drawing attention to myself.

And at the same time, I can recognize where that comes from. I can see the connection between not being celebrated and not feeling comfortable being seen. I can trace the way those early experiences shaped something internal. Something that doesn't just shift because my external [00:17:00] environment has changed.

That awareness matters because it creates space between what I feel and how I choose to move through it. I don't have to force myself into a version of joy that doesn't feel real. And I don't have to pretend that everything feels resolved, but I also don't have to disappear.

That's something I'm learning, that staying present, even in a small way is part of the shift. That allowing myself to receive, even a little, is part of the work. I think there's a lot of pressure around birthdays to feel a certain way to be happy and grateful, to enjoy being celebrated, and when your experience doesn't match that expectation, it can create another layer of discomfort.

Like something is wrong with you for not responding the way you're supposed to. But emotional responses don't come from obligation. They come from history and from what your body has learned about what is safe, familiar, and allowed. If being centered was never a safe [00:18:00] experience, then it makes sense that it wouldn't feel natural now. It means it takes a willingness to stay with yourself instead of pushing yourself past your own capacity.

There's something I've been thinking about a lot lately, the idea that healing isn't about becoming a completely different person. It's about becoming more honest with yourself, more aware of your patterns and intentional in how you move through them.

More compassionate towards a part of you that adapted in ways that once made sense, because those parts didn't form randomly, they formed in response to real experiences and to help you navigate environments where your needs weren't consistently met. Those adaptations don't disappear just because your life looks different now. They do start to soften over time when they are met with understanding instead of criticism. I think that's where I've had to meet myself, with curiosity and a willingness to ask, what does this part of me need right [00:19:00] now?

Not what it should feel, not how it should respond, but what it actually needs. And sometimes the answer is simple to move through the day gently, to not overextend myself to let the day be what it is without trying to force it into something else. And sometimes it's allowing myself to stay in moments that feel uncomfortable, to not immediately withdraw, or rush past the attention. To let it exist without needing to fully understand it. Because that's part of building something new. Slowly, creating different experiences in the present.

And I think that's what feels meaningful about this moment, that I'm able to notice it, to sit with it, and move through it with more awareness than I had before. There is something grounding in that, something that doesn't rely on everything feeling perfect in order for it to matter, and maybe that's enough.

Maybe this birthday doesn't have to be the one where everything shifts. Maybe [00:20:00] it's just another step, another moment where I choose to stay, to not disappear, to not abandon myself just because something feels uncomfortable. And in that choice, something is already changing.

If this episode resonated with you, please share with someone who might need it and take a moment to leave a review wherever you listen. Your review helps more people find the podcast and reminds others they're not alone. Don't forget to subscribe or follow the show so you never miss an episode. You can also join me on substack, where I share weekly reflections and gentle reminders to help you feel less alone on your healing journey. You'll find the link in the show notes. If you'd like to connect beyond the podcast you can find me on Instagram at Born Tired Podcast. I'd love to hear what resonated with you. And if you'd like to support the podcast, there's a link there to buy me a coffee.

Thank you for being here for listening with an open heart. Most of all, [00:21:00] remember this, your story matters. Your voice matters, and you are not alone.

This episode was written and narrated by Eirene Torres. Audio Production by Carlos Torres. Original music composed by Carlos Torres.