I called my parents one day on the corner of a street, with tears streaming down my face.
I told them I loved them and committed to getting to know them and treat them better.
It was the first time I was vulnerable with them.
For the next year and a half, I only had one goal: To be proud of the way I show up with my parents.
I was living at home at the time, so this was just about the hardest thing I had ever done.
More often than not, being with my parents meant that all the growth I'd been working on flies out the window.
I'd snap back into the angry 12-year-old who found every excuse to lash out.
I was dead set on breaking this cycle.
Every time I felt triggered, I excused myself to go to my room and meditate, journal, punch a pillow, do whatever it took to return to being loving with my parents.
It was not about being perfect.
There were times when I raised my voice. I would then come back to apologize.
Most of the best conversations with my parents came after the apology, where we'd talk about how to be better together.
By owning up, I always felt the burden of guilt lift off my chest, the weight that I had carried for over a decade that I vowed never to carry again.
I will go to my grave knowing that these are some of the proudest things I have ever done.