By Jan Lambert

Mother had a vicious temper and a violent streak. She screamed vile names and beat us daily. Father was emotionally distant, always critical, and rarely present in a meaningful way. Neither of them hugged me or spoke with kindness. They mostly tolerated my presence, and I grew up feeling like if I died, they might actually be relieved to have one less child to deal with.

That belief—deep, painful, and quietly persistent—followed me into every relationship, including both of my marriages.

My first marriage lasted four years. It took a suicide attempt for me to realize there were other ways out of an intolerable situation. The divorce became ugly fast. My husband kidnapped our son and tried to use the “unfit mother” argument that was so often thrown around in the 1960s and ’70s to gain sole custody. It was a manipulative attempt to force me to stay with him—to choose being near my son over my own safety and freedom. Thankfully, I was able to refute the charges, obtain my divorce, and gain sole custody of my child.

Eight years later, I married again. I believed this man to be kind, with a good sense of humor. But once we were married, the mask dropped. He became abusive—toward me, and toward my son. I was able to obtain my divorce from him without him learning I was expecting again. I refused to give him another victim. I chose to place that child for adoption.

Two years later, my son was arrested and sent to a Youth Services Correctional Center. He had begun acting out some of the very mistreatment he had witnessed and endured from both his father and stepfather.

Three years after that, my health collapsed. I had to quit my job at the university and apply for disability. It took four years, during which I survived on charity while I fought for benefits through a lawyer.

Over the next thirteen years, I was diagnosed with diabetes and congestive heart failure. Medicaid stepped in, and I was assigned a daily caregiver.

Then, four years later, I fell and fractured a vertebra. The MRI revealed something I hadn’t known: I had multiple past vertebral fractures that had healed improperly, putting constant pressure on my spinal nerves. Finally, I had an explanation for the chronic pain I’d been living with for most of my life.

But not all of it was dark.

Between the marriages and before the illness, there were good years. I had meaningful friendships, fulfilling jobs, time with my son, my horses, and boyfriends who treated me with kindness. My happiest moments were spent either in the saddle or simply laughing and playing with my child.

What I want to share is this: I became strong because of what I’ve been through. I didn’t start that way. But I’ve faced down bullies, stood my ground, and walked away—maybe not untouched, but still intact.

I’ve learned that I don’t have to keep trusting people just because they’re “supposed to” be responsible for my well-being. That includes parents, doctors, leaders, and teachers. If they betray that trust, I can make changes. I can walk away.

And though the Bible tells us, “Honor thy father and thy mother…” (Exodus 20:12), I’ve come to understand this in a broader sense: I can honor the fact that they gave me life. I can honor the chance I’ve been given to shape that life into something meaningful, even if they didn’t provide the love and care I deserved. That’s enough.

I’ve gone through some deeply painful things—and I’ve done it without letting bitterness define me. I still have my sense of humor. I can still be kind.

Forgiveness, for me, is not about excusing people. It’s about freedom. Their actions are still their responsibility. When their judgment day comes—if you believe in that—it’s between them and God. As the scriptures say:

“Vengeance is mine; I will repay…”
(Romans 12:19; see also Mormon 3:15; 8:20, Book of Mormon)

What forgiveness does is release me from the grip they had on my soul. It gives me the choice to live in peace instead of pain. And I’ll take peace, every time.

Each trial I’ve faced has shaped me into someone who can offer support to others—whether it’s someone navigating a difficult divorce, a struggling parent, or someone whose health is failing under the weight of modern life. I can offer what I have: the right words at the right moment, or a piece of knowledge that lightens their load.

“Opposition” has been my teacher. It’s what placed me on this path: to share what I’ve learned, to walk with others who are ready to think differently and change their lives.

Because the Law of Polarity promises us this:
For every hardship, there is a strength.
And with hope, maybe—just maybe—we become kinder than we ever thought we could be, too.

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