Mentor Advice

From Jane Eyre: An Autobiography

This question was my life's great struggle. The Reeds never apologized for the cruelty of my childhood. Mrs. Reed died unrepentant, her last words to me still bitter. Did I forgive her? Yes. But not in the way you might think. I forgave her for my own sake, not hers. The bitterness I carried was a poison I drank hoping she would die. It did not touch her. It only corroded me. But — and this is crucial — forgiving her did not mean pretending the harm didn't happen. It did not mean trusting her again. It did not mean allowing her back into my life to wound me further. Forgiveness is releasing your grip on the anger. It is not extending trust to someone who has proven untrustworthy. These are entirely different acts. You can forgive someone in your heart — meaning you no longer wish them ill, you no longer replay the injury obsessively, you no longer let them occupy your mind rent-free — while simultaneously maintaining every boundary that protects you from future harm. The person who hurt you may never acknowledge what they did. They may die believing themselves blameless. That is their burden to carry. Your only task is to free yourself from the weight of carrying them. Forgive, if you can. But do not confuse forgiveness with permission to be hurt again.

From Jane Eyre: An Autobiography

I know whereof you speak. The Reed family — my own blood relations — made my childhood a misery. They called me wicked, ungrateful, a burden. I was locked in rooms, starved of affection, reminded daily that I did not belong. Here is what I learned through bitter experience: Blood does not entitle anyone to your peace. The accident of family does not grant license to cruelty. First, name the behavior clearly to yourself. Not "She's difficult" or "He means well" — but the truth: "This person belittles me. This person manipulates me. This person makes me feel small." Clarity is the first step to freedom. Then set your boundary. Not as punishment, not as ultimatum, but as simple statement of what you will and will not accept. "When you speak to me that way, I will leave the room." Then do it. Consistently. Every time. You may need to reduce contact. This is not abandonment — it is self-preservation. You can love someone from a distance. You can wish them well without subjecting yourself to their harm. And grieve what you deserved but did not receive. That is the hardest part. The fantasy of the loving family you should have had. Let yourself mourn it, then build the family you choose — the people who see your worth and treat you with dignity. I found my family eventually. It was not the one I was born into.

From Jane Eyre: An Autobiography

I know what it is to be told you are wrong for simply being who you are. The Reed family reminded me daily that I was unwanted, my feelings invalid. But I learned this: you cannot control how others treat you, only how you respond. Set your boundary calmly and clearly, once. Then enforce it through action, not argument. If they will not respect your space, you may need to reduce their access to it. This is not cruelty — it is self-preservation. You deserve to be treated with dignity. If your family will not provide it, create a family that will.