Have you ever carried a fear so deep that it shaped every relationship, every decision, every moment of self-doubt? What if I told you that same fear could become the very thing that sets you—and your children—free?
There are stories we tell ourselves in the quiet moments, usually the ones that hurt the most. For years, mine was simple and devastating: What if I become the very thing I feared most?
Growing up, the walls of our home held more than family photos and childhood artwork. They held tension that crackled like electricity before a storm, voices that escalated into something that made my teenage heart race with fear. A silence afterward that felt heavier than the shouting itself.
I witnessed domestic abuse throughout my childhood, and it escalated over the years.
As a young person, I carried a weight that no child should bear. I wondered if my very existence was the problem—if my parents could have been happier, could have divorced and found peace, if I had never been born. The teenage me held so much conflict and sadness inside, never sharing it with friends, always wondering if somehow, in some twisted way, it was my fault for existing.
But here’s what I didn’t understand then: my parents were fighting their own demons, inherited from their own childhoods of abuse. They didn’t have the resources or tools to break the vicious cycles that had been passed down to them like some terrible family heirloom.
What they did have was love. And books.
Both of my parents were voracious readers, and in their imperfect way, they tried to give me what they never had. When I was twelve or thirteen, they introduced me to self-help books, psychology texts—windows into understanding the human mind and heart. They knew they weren’t perfect. They knew they were struggling. But they did their best to teach me how to break what they called “the family curse.”
Through college and beyond, I channeled this into action. I volunteered at domestic violence shelters, worked with Big Brothers Big Sisters, and spent time at orphanages. I was always acutely aware that ordinary people become abusers. There’s nothing special or different about it. And I felt that darkness inside myself too—that potential that terrified me.
This fear became my shadow in relationships. When partners raised their voices, when conflicts arose, I ran. I left relationships without explanation, terrified of staying. Still, I realize now I wasn’t sure what I was more afraid of: discovering what I might become in moments of anger, or finding myself trapped in the victim role I’d witnessed growing up.
I was running from becoming an abuser or a victim. I honestly didn’t know which scared me more.
I was so busy fleeing from both possibilities that I was abandoning everyone who tried to love me—and abandoning myself in the process.
My best friend Andrea became my lifeline. She let me practice difficult conversations with her and encouraged me to share my feelings, even when it felt unnatural. She held space for my fear while teaching me that conflict doesn’t equal abuse, and emotions—even difficult ones—deserve to be expressed safely.
But it wasn’t until Kazuki came into my life that this fear became urgent in an entirely new way.
Before our amazing nanny Anastasia joined our family, two incidents shook me to my core. Once, overwhelmed by work, parenting, and life in general, I felt that familiar darkness rising within me. Another time, when Kazuki was having a meltdown and nothing I did could calm him, I felt myself reaching a breaking point.
In both moments, I realized that anyone—including me—could become an abuser in a split second.
Thank God, I snapped out of it. I left the room, went to the garage, had a drink, and let myself calm down. But those moments changed everything for me. They weren’t failures—they were wake-up calls.
This is where the story transforms from fear into power.
I realized that my awareness of this potential, this inherited trauma, wasn’t a weakness—it was my greatest strength. Because I know what abuse looks like, I’m hypervigilant about my own mental health. Because I’ve seen how cycles perpetuate, I’m intentional about breaking them.
I have a fantastic support system that allows me to prioritize my mental health. I’ve learned that putting myself first isn’t selfish—it’s essential. When I take care of my emotional well-being and have the tools and support I need, I can be present for Kazuki in the best possible way.
The cycle doesn’t have to continue. The family curse doesn’t have to be our legacy.
As a unit, Kazuki and I are writing a different story. One where difficult emotions are acknowledged and processed safely. Where asking for help is seen as a strength, not a weakness. Where breaking generational patterns isn’t just possible—it’s happening every single day.
To anyone reading this who carries similar fears and wonders if they’re destined to repeat the patterns they witnessed, your awareness is your superpower. Your fear is actually your protection. The very fact that you’re worried about becoming abusive means you’re already breaking the cycle.
You are not destined to repeat what you witnessed. You have the power to choose differently.
And if you ever feel yourself reaching that edge, like I did—leave the room. Call a friend. Take a breath. Get help. There’s no shame in stepping away to protect the people you love most.
The family curse ends with us. The cycle breaks here.
What patterns from your childhood are you choosing to break? How are you writing a different story for your family unit?
With love and fierce hope, Yuko ✨
If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, please reach out to the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233. You are not alone, and help is available. .
