How to Tell Your Child(ren) the Truth About the Abuse Without Passing on the Pain

“I called them pink leaves... I first noticed these blossoms, 'yaezakura', the late-blooming cherry blossom, when life started to feel ... lighter. They had been there all along on my daily path to and from daycare, school, and my lab. I never noticed them for years... Read more...

Some conversations you never plan for.

They are not marked in your calendar or scheduled in your phone.

They show up smack in the middle of packing school lunch, walking home from the park, or on a quiet evening when your child asks a question you’ve been wondering how to answer for a while.

For me, it began in fragments.

One of my children had late-onset trauma-induced (dissociative) amnesia. He remembered the incident, the night that broke the camel’s back, at the time and then, mercifully, forgot. For years.

And then one day, he remembered again.

I was raised in a culture, religion, and tradition where you simply didn’t talk about 'such things'. If you did, it was gossip, being unsubmissive, or even parental alienation. Meanwhile, perpetrators often freely carry out full-scale diabolical smear campaigns under the guise of sympathy-seeking or self-defense. The woman, however, dare not speak in her own defense, as she risks attracting even more blame and judgment.

So why tell the children at all?

Because silence doesn’t protect them. It only gives the false version more space and fertilizer to grow. That growth fuels generational trauma, and they, in turn, pass on the trauma, and the cycle continues. If we don’t speak truth to our children, and I mean speak truth in a way that is safe and age-appropriate, they may literally 'inherit' lies. Lies about us, about life, or worse, lies about themselves. This happens by internalizing the perpetrator’s narrative as their own.

In our family, I’ve always kept a sacred boundary around how and when I spoke about their father. Not in front of them. Never in ways that would poison their spirit or force them to carry adult pain.

Yes, he was mean. Yes, he was utterly unkind to me and to us. And that is putting it very, in fact extremely, mildly. But my children would form their own understanding in their own time. My role was to keep their hearts clear and their lives safe and until then.

So when the memories began returning, I didn’t rush to fill the space with my version of events. I answered their questions, only what they asked, only what was age-appropriate.

And as they grew, certain circumstances made it necessary to share more details often in response to direct questions like, “Mama, why do we have to move again?” (knowing that meant changing schools), or during serious incidents such as stalking that required security intervention. Even then, I shared only what was needed for them to understand and feel safe, never anything untoward or unnecessarily heavy.

For family and friends who were privy to certain incidents or escalations, or who experienced them second-hand, I never allowed them to speak about him in the children’s presence. If it was just us adults, I’d say, “Go ahead, Bro/Sis, vent as much as you want,” but not in front of the children.

Whenever I’ve shared this in talks and seminars, someone inevitably asks how I came to that place, because Sis, it’s been a lot of toxicity and inflicted pain, and so the question is valid. I’ve often credited my faith-based upbringing, but more than that, I believe it was intuitive. Somewhere at the heart of it all, I wanted to be a good mother. I wanted to heal. I wanted my life back. And I sensed that I couldn’t do that if I harbored resentment and bitterness.

I also hold a nuanced view of forgiveness: it’s a journey, it’s individual, it’s not linear, and it’s not necessary for everyone’s healing or resolution. For me, though, choosing to let go was key.

Also, I still vividly remember my very first therapy session, early in my graduate school days. Back then, we used Skype, and I met with a wonderful woman who had over a decade of experience working with women who had survived domestic violence. She told me something that has stayed with me ever since: while perpetrators often went on to live their seemingly best lives, many of the women she worked with still struggled. Not only because of the long-term effects of abuse, but also because they were held back by unresolved pain and bitterness, unable to let go.

In that very first session, she asked me to promise her that I would give no room to anger, bitterness, or resentment; that I would not hold on to them; that we would work through them together in therapy. That promise became foundational to how I have lived intentionally ever since, and it has shaped the way I parent, the way I speak truth, and the way I protect my children’s emotional space to this day.

It wasn’t easy.

I learned early in my thriving journey that no one was coming. I was, and still am, my own best advocate. Yes, I had a great support system, family, friends, and faith, but even so, there were moments when only I could stand for myself. And so it was through a lot of therapy, eventually coaching, and personal development in various areas of life, that transformation began to take root. That work, years of it, is why I can sit here today and write this.

Truth-telling is a process, not a purge.

It’s not a single conversation; it’s a living dialogue that shifts as your children’s capacity grows. And when done with care, it can strengthen the bond between you, instead of breaking it.

In retrospect, here are the three guiding principles I followed:

1. Follow Their Lead

   Wait for their questions and let their curiosity guide you. Share only when they’re ready to hear it.

2. Keep it age-appropriate + bite-sized

   Share only what fits their age and capacity. You can add more later, but you can’t take back what they weren’t ready to hear.

3. Protect Their Emotional Space

   Share facts and details from a place of strength and healing, not while you’re still processing the pain. Speak as a survivor who has come through it, not as a co-victim. Your children need you as a steady witness; they are not your therapists, so they shouldn’t be required to hold space for your pain.

   
   

Along the way, I'd written a poem for the Nagasaki University periodical, Urakami 「うらかみ」. An odd contribution for the annual magazine of my graduate school research laboratory at Genken, no doubt! Looking back, I see now that it wasn't just about that moment in time; it was about speaking words that could hold both truth and tenderness. I also shared this on Gift from Within years later, as I grew and recovered. I'll share it with you.

_____________________________

THE SILENT CRY

(first published on Gift From Within, 2011)

Flo

The bells are silent in Urakami.

Still, a cry pierces the night.

I cry, she cries, all cry together.

For children, for home, for life, for peace.

A woman, a mother, a wife;

As longs as she cries – she remains

A victim.

No one hears – the silent cry.

I cry, she cries, all cry together.

For children, for home, for life, for peace.

She tries, she tires ?

And then she shouts – she becomes

A survivor.

Someone hears – silent no more!

She smiles?

She laughs, with children and home and life.

And peace.

Still she prays, for songs unsung and broken dreams.

"Grant us peace." ("平和を")

Dedicated to Victims and Survivors of Domestic Violence in Japan and Nigeria.

And to all who work tirelessly to understand and support them.

By Dr. Flo | Nagasaki, March 17, 2011

"**Grant us peace." ("平和を"),The Bells of Nagasaki by Dr. Takashi Nagai

_____________________________

In the Library, I share some resources that helped me in my journey from surviving

to thriving

Your children will remember not just what you told them, but how they felt in the moment you told them.

Let it be clarity.

Let it be courage.

Let it be love.

And let the rest, the reckoning, the restoration, unfold in its own time. Because it will, darling, it will.

Love and Power ✨,

Dr. Flo

Postscript:

We lived in beautiful Nagasaki city at the time, near a great Roman Catholic church with its sprawling gardens and footpaths. I had walked that road for years without ever noticing the yaezakura, the late-blooming double cherry blossoms. They flower longer than the others, their petals layered and full, appearing weeks after most sakura have fallen. It was only when my life began to feel lighter that I finally saw them, as if they had been waiting all along. In Japan, the early Sakura remind us that beauty is fleeting. But the Yaezakura remind us that some forms of beauty come later, last longer, and are just as sacred. That was the season when I began to see beauty again, from ashes. Not the fleeting kind, but the enduring kind. And I remain ever grateful.”

Yaezakura:

• What it is: Yaezakura (八重桜) means “multi-layered cherry blossom.” Unlike the iconic Somei Yoshino (the pale pink, brief blossoms most people associate with sakura season), yaezakura blooms later, often in late April or even May. The blossoms are fuller, heavier, almost like little bouquets.

• Symbolism: While Somei Yoshino is treasured for its brief, ephemeral beauty (symbolizing the impermanence of life), yaezakura embodies endurance, resilience, and layered beauty. Because they bloom longer and later, they are sometimes associated with persistence after hardship, beauty from ashes, that which takes time, but lasts.