The Truth I Stopped Softening
Sitting in a grief support group, I wait for my turn.
Hi, I’m Angie. My person is my son, Connor. He died of a drug overdose.
For years, I never said it like that.
I softened it. Added context. Gave explanations that made it easier for other people to understand—and easier for me to carry.
He died of an accidental overdose.
On prescription medication.
On Oxy.
It sounded different that way. Less harsh. Less final. Less… loaded.
But what I didn’t realize then was this:
I wasn’t protecting other people from the truth.
I was protecting myself from my own shame.
Because underneath every softened version of that sentence was a question I couldn’t escape:
How did this happen?
And a belief I couldn’t shake:
It must have been my fault.
That belief didn’t just live in my thoughts.
It lived in my body.
In my dreams.
In the quiet loops my mind ran when no one else was around.
And even after years of therapy, healing, and understanding…
it was still there.
Continue the Story
In the full piece, I share how this shame showed up in my dreams, the patterns I thought I had already healed, and what it took—15 years later—to finally say the truth without defending it.
Continue reading on Threads of My Heart:
The Truth I Stopped Softening
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