The Unspoken Difference: A Reflection on Being the “Other” Child

Baby Diana with her brothers.

There’s something I’ve carried quietly for years.

Not anger. Not bitterness.

Just the gentle, heartbreaking realization that love, or at least the act of showing up, wasn’t given equally in my family.

My father was always there for my stepmother’s children. Even before they officially became his, he stepped in. Bought them clothes. Paid for groceries. Showed up without being asked.

And they grew up with that.

Today, they all live within minutes of each other, steady lives, families of their own, and the comfort of always having each other close.

Meanwhile, my brothers and I?

We served our country.
We scattered.
We struggled.
None of them married. I did…to someone who tried to hurt me.
Someone who tried to diminish me, the way others had.

And somewhere along the way, we stopped talking. We never got the version of our father who picked up the pieces and made sure we were okay.

It’s not lost on me that if he had shown up for us the same way, our lives might have looked very different.

My stepmother made it clear we were outsiders. She wedged herself between our father and us when we were still young and uncertain, and the gap only widened over time.

Eventually, though…I’ve made peace with it.

It took decades.
It took healing.
It took rebuilding…my sense of worth, moment by moment.

But I’ve created a life I love.

I have beautiful, soulful friendships.
I have family…chosen and real, who support me.
I have a home filled with peace, laughter, and love.
And I’ve built it all myself.

That past didn’t break me.
It shaped me.
It gave me the empathy I bring to every client I support.

Because I know what it feels like to be unseen.
To not be chosen.
To try to earn love that never quite came.

That’s why I do this work.
That’s why I care so deeply.

Because healing isn’t just possible, it’s powerful.
And when we create it for ourselves, it lasts.

xx,
Diana