There was no grand entrance. No moment of music swelling and lights dimming. It didn’t happen like that.
She became a mother while still becoming herself.
The years that followed were not marked by milestones neatly written in baby books or celebrated over dinners. They were marked by small, silent moments. Forgotten breakfasts. Heavy nights. Days where the sun rose and set and she didn’t know what she had done in between.
Her name wasn’t Alice, but that’s what she called herself in the quiet corners of the internet—Alice Wonderland. A name borrowed for safety. A name that let her speak truths without the weight of being known
Her bio read like a confession.
Letters for the sacred, the shadowed, and the sovereign. Raw, reflective writing from the liminal spaces of motherhood, healing, and becoming. I write anonymously to tell the truth without dilution—one threshold at a time.
And it was the truth.
She told it plain. Unvarnished. Like Hemingway said a person should write—just the truest sentence they knew.
The early days were hard.
No one knew.
She didn’t let them.
She couldn’t afford the time it took to explain the weight she carried. There was a baby to feed. Sometimes a toddler crying in the next room. Coursework unfinished. Dishes piling in the sink. And that heavy thing in her chest that wouldn’t leave her alone.
It wasn’t resilience back then.
It was survival.
It was silence.
She’d sit at the kitchen table, eyes raw from lack of sleep, one hand tracing circles on the wood grain while the other held her head up. She prayed—not the kind of prayers found in books—but the kind a person whispers through clenched teeth and shaking hands.
Let me find a way out. Let me hold on long enough to get through tomorrow.
But the rescue never came.
And then she realized—she was the net.
That’s how she wrote it later.
I am the net. I am the one who catches. I am the one who climbs out, alone if I must.
It wasn’t a moment of triumph. No fists raised to the sky. Just a slow, tired understanding that if anyone was going to save her—it had to be her.
She became the one who caught herself on the nights when the darkness crept in too close.
She became the one who climbed out—hand over hand, inch by inch, through the hardest nights and the longest days.
There was no single turning point.
No grand declaration.
Just a collection of breathless moments.
Like standing over the sink, staring at her reflection in the dark window, wondering if it would matter to anyone if she simply disappeared.
Like watching her children sleep and realizing, This can’t be how I go out.
Her children became mirrors.
They saw her even when she couldn’t see herself.
And in their eyes, she found the strength to begin again.
There’s a kind of grief in becoming.
It strips you down. Softens you where you built walls. Makes you kneel before all the things you thought you could control and admit you were wrong.
But it also gives you something back.
In the small spaces.
In the quiet.
One breath.
One choice.
One boundary at a time.
She wrote about it later, on a night much like the others. Alone at the kitchen table, children asleep upstairs. The house quiet but alive with the echoes of the day.
She wrote about the legacy she wanted to leave behind.
Not land.
Not wealth.
But liberation.
That was the word she came back to again and again. Liberation.
It didn’t come all at once.
It came in the rhythm of small decisions.
Eating when she used to go hungry.
Resting without guilt.
Saying no when she would’ve said yes.
And most of all—staying.
Staying when everything in her screamed to run.
She began to notice the change reflected in her children.
How they asked for what they needed without apology.
How they stood taller. Spoke louder. Dreamed bigger.
And she realized—this was the healing she had longed for.
Not just for herself.
But for them.
That’s what she meant when she wrote, This is generational wealth.
Not measured in dollars.
Measured in freedom.
In the way her children laughed.
In the way they moved through the world with unshaken belief in their own worth.
She kept writing.
Quietly. Anonymously.
One story at a time.
And somehow, through the telling, she found herself again.
Not the self who had to carry everything and everyone.
But the self who knew that her worth was not built through sacrifice.
Not through self-erasure.
But through presence.
Through staying.
Through living.
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The healing didn’t come with fanfare.
It came on quiet nights.
Like this one.
Sitting in the same chair.
At the same table.
But now, she could feel the strength in her own hands.
She didn’t pray for a net anymore.
She knew she had already become it.
And that was enough.
The Final Reflection
Somewhere in the middle of the hard years, she wrote a line that never left her.
I thought my job was to keep everything from falling apart. But it never was. My job was to stand still long enough to see that even the pieces could be beautiful.
And in that standing still, she found something she thought was lost forever.
Peace.
She still walks the line between becoming and being.
But now she does it with open eyes.
With a heart that knows the way home.
And when the darkness creeps in—as it sometimes still does—she whispers the words that saved her.
I am the net. I am the one who catches.
And she does.
Every time.
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Inspiration for This Story.
This story is a testament to quiet resilience and the unseen battles fought in the ordinary moments of life. It reminds us that becoming whole isn’t about grand triumphs but small, courageous acts of staying when it’s easier to run, and choosing healing over self-erasure. It speaks to the hidden strength of mothers, caregivers, and anyone carrying more than their share—showing that true generational wealth is found not in material things, but in the freedom and healing we pass on. Above all, it’s a reminder: you are the net, and you have the strength to catch yourself and rise.
—John Rinaldo
About Alice.
Alice Wonderland, known on Substack as @myunspokenchapters, is a powerful and anonymous voice writing from the raw edges of life. Her work explores the sacred, the shadowed, and the sovereign spaces we often rush past—those quiet, liminal moments of motherhood, healing, and becoming. Through unfiltered honesty and lyrical reflection, she invites readers into the depths of personal transformation, where worth is reclaimed not through sacrifice, but through presence and gentle courage. Writing under a veil of anonymity, she tells the truth without dilution, honoring each threshold crossed and offering her readers a mirror for their own silent, unspoken chapters.
Rediscovering Vancouver – A journey through childhood memories, remarkable encounters with Johnny Depp, Michael Bublé, and a Chinese Revolutionary. Now on Amazon—grab your copy and relive the adventure!
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You did it again, John. So evocative.
John, I found you through Alice. She’s strong and beautiful. Thank you for introducing her to your readers, as she has introduced you to me. Wonderful post. :)