Walking a Mile in My Nervous System
A survivor-focused workbook that explains what trauma really does to the body, identity, and inner voice — and how to begin reclaiming autonomy.
Open Workbook →People don’t like to talk about this kind of favoritism because it disrupts the myth of motherhood as inherently nurturing. But some mothers don’t just fail one child. They choose one—and then spend a lifetime justifying why the other deserves less, such as in my case.
Sometimes the justification is subtle. Sometimes it’s cruel. And sometimes it’s wrapped in religion.
I grew up watching my mother build a life for my brother: a stable home, a brick house, consistent support, transportation, work opportunities, protection from consequences. Even now, those supports remain intact—reinforced, unquestioned, assumed. All, while I've been left to figure it out and excluded from my family.
I grew up without any of that.
- No lasting security.
- No stable footing.
- No “you’re safe here.”
- No net beneath the fall.
And this didn’t begin in adulthood. It began in childhood—when protection mattered most.
My brother and I had different fathers. His father was the brutal abuser in our home. There were moments that were not ambiguous, not disciplinary, not misunderstandings—but life-threatening.
Like at the age of 6 years old, when he "accidentally" poured boiling hot chocolate between my legs, sending me to the ER and leaving me with second- and third-degree burns to my groin. Yes, that happened as awful as it is.
The time he attempted to poison us with chemically contaminated food, telling us that if we didn't eat it all, he would beat us.
These weren’t accidents. They were moments where a mother’s most basic obligation—to intervene and protect—was unmistakable. And yet, no protection came.
What followed was just as formative as the acts themselves: silence, minimization, and later ridicule—mockery that happened in front of my mother and my brother, without consequence, without interruption, without anyone taking my side. He would tell me that my father was a monkey from the zoo, he would call me sissy and mock me in front of my brother. As a little boy, I didn't understand any of what was happening and believed I must be all the bad things they said.
Religion became the alibi.
Instead of confronting her choices, my mother reframed them as righteousness. Instead of acknowledging harm, she spiritualized it. Instead of reckoning with abandonment, she called it discipline, consequence, or God’s plan.
This is not faith. This is moral laundering.
When a mother chooses one child over another, it doesn’t happen by accident. It happens through a series of decisions: who is worth rescuing, who is worth investing in, who is given the benefit of the doubt, and who is expected to suffer quietly.
Over time, the chosen child is framed as “good,” “responsible,” or “deserving.” The other becomes “difficult,” “broken,” or “the problem.” And religion offers the final seal: God agrees with me.
A parent who can watch one child thrive under their protection while another is harmed in front of them—and call that love—has made a choice. A parent who provides safety selectively is not neutral. And a parent who uses religion to justify unequal care is not holy—they are avoiding accountability.
The difference isn’t character. It’s access to safety. One child was allowed to rest. The other was trained to endure. And endurance gets mistaken for weakness when it finally collapses.
Some mothers don’t protect all their children. They protect the ones who reflect well on them. They punish the ones who threaten their self-image. And they call it love.
That doesn’t make the abandoned child ungrateful. It makes them honest. And honesty, in families like this, is the one thing that’s never forgiven.