On my thirty-second birthday, my German friends and I sat around a table, deep in conversation about relationships. I told them I was looking for a good man—but when asked what that meant, I realized I couldn’t define it clearly. All I knew was this: he couldn’t take me for granted or treat me like a servant. He had to respect me and let me be myself. If I said no, he had to accept it. No guilt trips, no force. Just respect.

The other women nodded in agreement.

Crystal, a tall, blonde divorcée and successful bar owner, chimed in confidently, “I have no problem telling a man no.”
But I knew that wasn’t entirely true. She had left a controlling husband, and when I brought it up, she insisted she had learned to stand up for herself now. Still, she couldn’t explain how she’d changed—just that she had.

Eva, 28, worked in high fashion. She had recently ended a relationship with a man who, like her father, was domineering and patriarchal. “I couldn’t take it anymore,” she said. “I left home at 17 and I rarely go back. I can’t stand how my father treats my mother—or me.”

Ivett, married to a dentist, lived in luxury. She took a different stance. “A woman must shut up and serve her husband,” she said flatly. “I can’t deprive my children of the life they have now. If I divorced him, I couldn’t afford this lifestyle.” Her voice was steady as she repeated her mother’s philosophy: a woman’s role was to raise children, support her husband’s career, and look good. “When I tell my mother I’m afraid my husband will hit me again, she tells me to smile, keep quiet, and make him feel like a man. She says she did the same with my father—and look at them, they had a wonderful life.”

Ursula, recently divorced and my partner in our boutique, shared her story. “All I did was cook, clean, take care of two kids, and submit to my husband’s constant demands for sex. My mother told me I was lucky to have a husband at all—because I was fat. I kept my house spotless, terrified she’d show up unannounced and judge me.”
She paused, then added, “Looking back, I see I had taken on my mother’s beliefs, even though I never agreed with them. My priorities were reading, education, and travel—not housework. As a child, I had to sneak novels into the bathroom. When I said at 14 that I wanted to travel, my mother choked and told me to find a husband before I got fat and old. I didn’t have to look far—she found one for me. She said I should feel lucky he wanted to marry me, despite my body.”

Each of these confessions echoed parts of my own story. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t much different from my friends, though I didn’t want to admit it.

To me, dependence felt like surrender. I’d seen enough of that in my own mother.
I had two businesses, made enough money to live the life I wanted, drove a Mercedes, and could buy what I pleased. Best of all, I never had to submit to anyone. At least, that’s what I told myself.

But was I just pretending to be strong? The truth I couldn’t share was that I felt vulnerable—and afraid. In relationships, I still struggled to express my opinions. I wanted to live more fully, but who could I learn from? My friends had the same wounds I did.

We met one last time as a group, before I moved to America. I asked them a question that had been on my mind for a while:
“Were we disrespected by our parents, and did that shape our relationships today?”

The conversation exploded. We argued about respect and self-worth until four in the morning. Yet none of them could—or would—trace their submission back to childhood. Still, I saw something in their posture, in the flicker of their eyes—a silent admission that maybe, just maybe, it was worth looking back.

Eventually, I said quietly, “I learned to lie and be submissive until I was 32.
I learned obedience through fear.”

I couldn’t say it all out loud then, but the truth was this:
As a child, I stole things because my mother told me to—because I was afraid not to obey. I let my father touch me without protest, because I was terrified. I did what my mother said so she wouldn’t hit me again. Everything I did, I did out of fear.

One night, I asked myself why I couldn’t express my needs—and at first, I had no answer. Then it hit me: I didn’t even know what my needs were. No one had ever asked. The idea that I was allowed to have needs felt new—almost foreign, like a language I’d never been taught.

Slowly, I began to unlearn everything I’d been taught. I started to recognize the toxic patterns—the narcissistic expectations that had shaped me. But before I could replace them with my own values, I had to uncover what those values even were.

The process of realization began gently. The fear of being unworthy started to fade. And for the first time, I began to say NO.

I began to feel. To speak. To exist on my own terms.