The Stories We Hold: Transforming Pain Into Purpose.
What we don’t share accumulates within us.
It starts as a thin, dark smoke—barely noticeable. But when left unspoken, it repeats in our minds like a looping film. Over time, it condenses and solidifies into a heavy stone lodged in the heart… or somewhere else in the body. That stone carries a story. A story wrapped in emotions we either feel too ashamed to express or too attached to let go of—because who are we without it?
Sometimes, we unconsciously use our pain as an alibi to keep playing small.
Why?
Because we remember our stories from the level of awareness we had when they happened. And we retell them in our minds through that same lens, over and over. But what if we paused… and asked ourselves: “Is it exactly how it happened? Or did I add pieces to make sense of my pain?”
You might just surprise yourself.
And I know—some of you will say, “Joanne, if you only knew how hard it’s been for me. If I could just hit CTRL + ALT + DELETE and erase that memory, life would be so much lighter.”
It’s frustrating, right? When someone tells you, “Just let it go.” As if healing was that simple. As if we could just flush it down the toilet and move on.
If only.
But that’s not how it works.
Let me share a piece of my personal story—not all the details, but enough to share my heart and the lesson that came through it. And thank you, truly, for being here. I love that we can meet each other in this sacred space. Regardless of ethnicity, education, or life circumstance, we are the same—we have a heart, beating quietly but powerfully, keeping us alive. That’s our shared truth. And I wouldn’t be writing this if mine wasn’t still beating, and you wouldn’t be reading this if yours wasn’t too.
So here it is…
The Story I Once Couldn’t Speak
I have mixed emotions about writing this—because playing the victim was never my vibe. I used to hate that this was my childhood story.
I would often find myself drifting into fantasy, imagining what my life would have been like if only I had been raised by my real mom… if only I had grown up with loving parents… then maybe I would remember my childhood with warmth and joy, instead of heaviness and buckets of silent tears.
There was a time I couldn’t even speak about it without crying. But look—I’ve got no tears now. (Well, not yet.)
I resisted the truth of my story for so long. I wished it was different. In my teenage years, I often wondered, Was I not good enough? Not lovable enough? Why didn’t my biological mother even try to find me? Is she still alive?
Okay—tears are building now. Give me a moment.
Deep breath. Sip of coffee.
Alright, I’m back.
My father found it hard to explain her absence. He devoted his entire life to work—to provide the best life he could. He was the definition of a great provider. Every day, I watched him dress up, his white shoes gleaming, holding our home together, raising five children with tireless commitment. He set a high bar.
So who was I to question him? I dared not ask again after he once said, “Joanne, why look for what isn’t here? I’m doing everything for you.” I swallowed my questions, appreciated his effort, and focused on my studies.
But adolescence came, with all its hormones and aches, and I began to understand—I receive love through physical touch. And in my home, I was touch-deprived.
At night, I would fantasize about what it would feel like to be kissed on the cheek, hugged softly, and told “goodnight” by my mom.
But that wasn’t my reality.
Instead, I slept in terror.
My stepmother and I were not in harmony back then. Now, I understand our dynamic better. I was longing for a mother’s love, and she was doing her best to care for a child who reminded her of what wasn’t hers. She told me, “Wala akong amor sa’yo, Joanne.”
I learned later that amor means love. She was saying: “I don’t have love for you, but I’m still here.”
It felt like a dagger through every part of me.
Okay. Now I’m crying.
Pause. Breathe.
I want you to know this was all in the past.
Today, my stepmother and I are in good terms. The last time we met, we shared lunch. She gently held my arm and asked about my love life. We’ve both grown. I feel a deep, sincere gratitude for her. I understand her pain. I see her effort. She helped raise me. She shaped me.
I wouldn’t be who I am today without her.
She made me strong.
Deep breath.
You know, if you extend your exhale, you activate your body’s parasympathetic nervous system—the part that helps you relax. Let’s try it together:
Inhale through your nose… let your chest expand.
Now exhale through your mouth—long, slow, and soft.
Let the wave of calm wash over you.
You can do this anytime.
Ok, back to the story.
The stories we don’t share haunt us. They whisper the lie: “You’re not enough. That’s why it happened.”
Our mind searches for ways to validate that pain. We repeat the story. We seek sympathy. We desire to feel seen. And unconsciously, those stories become our inner compass, influencing every choice, every relationship, every risk we don’t take.
I used to overdo everything to prove I was good enough. I kept people at arm’s length. I believed I was unlovable. After all, if my own mother didn’t try to find me for 25 years, that must mean I wasn’t worth the effort. I must have been a mistake. A burden.
That was the soundtrack in the back of my mind.
So I told myself: I’ll give my all—or nothing. At 17, I left home to live on my own. I became fiercely independent, determined to never be a burden to anyone again.
Life was a rollercoaster. I had been raised in discomfort, so I became an expert at enduring pain. What else could hurt me, right? I was already dead inside.
I used to believe time would heal me.
It didn’t.
Time doesn’t heal what we keep buried. That pain still crept in. I didn’t understand why I would wake up in the middle of the night, heart heavy as a hollow block, my body sinking into the mattress, paralyzed. I tried everything—dating, shopping, working until I collapsed—just to avoid that ache in my chest.
But what we resist, persists. And it did.
I knew I couldn’t start a family while carrying this heaviness. I didn’t want to pass it down. If I could hold the pain and stop it from continuing, I would.
And yet, many nights, I found myself driving through empty streets at 2:00 a.m., yellow streetlights flashing past, tears silently rolling down my cheeks.
Why won’t this just go away? It’s in the past. I desire to live forward.
I prayed: God, angels, Universe—help me. Show me.
What we don’t share becomes our blockage—not to punish us, but to teach us.
When we pause and turn inward… when we truly listen… we discover that our pain holds the key to our next chapter. Our story contains the codes to the highest version of ourselves.
Reflection Prompt:
What did you learn from this story? What pain have you been carrying that might hold the code to your transformation?
If this story spoke to your heart…
If you felt seen, moved, or even cracked open by what I shared, know that you’re not alone. The stories we carry don’t have to define us forever. There’s a way to shift, to release, and to step into a version of yourself that feels lighter, freer, and more rooted in truth—not pain.
This is exactly the work I do.
I guide people through the journey of inner liberation, helping them untangle the stories that have weighed them down for years. Through deep coaching, healing practices, and heart-to-heart conversations, I’ll help you find your power again—not by fixing you, but by reminding you that you were never broken.
If you’re ready to release what’s been sitting heavy in your heart… let’s talk.
You can work with me 1:1, join one of my immersive programs, or invite me to speak or facilitate for your group or retreat.
Message me directly to begin.
You deserve to live a life that feels like truth—not survival.
With love,
Joanne Genoza
If this message stirred something in you… Then it will be in high service to you to read this next post:
“Your Bold Yes Will Change Everything.”
Joanne Genoza
