Power of Hate: Review

My Story

I hated substance abuse. I hated addiction.

But if I’m honest, what I hated most wasn’t the substances themselves. It was the attachment—the way the addict clung to a persona they played. Someone unreachable. Someone evasive. Someone I couldn’t save.

Instead of walking away, I tried to fix them.

I became codependent without realizing it. I confused control with care. I believed that if I loved harder, showed up more, sacrificed enough of myself, I could turn them back into the person I wanted them to be.

I didn’t call it hate back then. I called it loyalty. I called it commitment. I called it love.

But underneath it was resentment. Toward the addiction. Toward the choices. Toward my own helplessness. And eventually, toward myself.

The cost was high.

Time was taken away from my children. Emotional energy that should have gone to being the present, grounded mother I hoped to be was spent managing chaos that was never mine to control. Money was spent trying to rescue instead of being invested in our future. Time was poured into meetings—not just to heal myself, but to learn how to accept a path I didn’t want for someone I loved.

I told myself I was doing the work. But much of the time, I was just trying to endure it.

The Fear Beneath the Hate

What took me years to understand was this: hate wasn’t the opposite of love. It was fear.

Fear of being alone. Fear that no one would ever love me. Fear of being single, as if that meant I had failed.

I was afraid I would lose my family because I didn’t know how to stand on my own. And as that fear deepened, it turned inward. I began to hate myself for not being able to fix the people I loved—especially knowing my children loved them too.

I took on far more than was ever mine to carry.

Hate didn’t make me stronger. It made me rigid. It narrowed my vision. It kept me bonded to the past. And the more I fought what was happening, the more afraid I became.

Hate feels powerful because fear feels helpless.

Why We Hold On

This is where we need honesty—not judgment.

Hate is a coping strategy. It creates urgency, vigilance, and control. For a time, it works. It shields us from fear and gives shape to pain that feels too overwhelming to sit with.

But eventually, what once protected us begins to cost us.

It costs our peace. It costs our presence. It costs our relationships. It costs the life we keep postponing while waiting for someone else to change.

If we want our behavior to change, we have to be willing to release the fear beneath our hate—because carrying it costs far more than it’s worth.

The Courage to Look Deeper

When we are willing to release that fear, we move from reaction to choice. Responsibility begins here—not as blame, but as clarity.

Before trying to fix anything, pause.

Ask yourself—not harshly, but honestly:

• Where am I staying because leaving feels frightening?

• What am I trying to control instead of tolerating uncertainty?

• Who am I trying to fix so I don’t have to face myself?

• What am I calling love that may actually be fear of loss?

• What part of my life has been on hold while I wait for someone else to change?

• What am I afraid would happen if I let go?

You don’t need immediate answers. The willingness to ask is enough to begin loosening old patterns.

A Simple Grounding Practice

Place one hand on your chest and one on your abdomen. Inhale slowly through your nose for a count of four. Exhale gently through your mouth for a count of six. Repeat three times.

Notice where fear shows up in your body. Notice what softens when you stop resisting. Nothing needs to change in this moment. Presence alone begins to interrupt fear’s grip.

Responsibility in Action

Awareness is powerful—but awareness alone doesn’t change our lives.

At some point, we have to decide whether we’re willing to take responsibility for what we keep carrying. Not because we caused the pain, but because we’re the ones living with its weight.

Responsibility looks like:

• Pausing instead of reacting

• Letting discomfort exist without trying to control it

• Allowing others to walk their own path

• Choosing presence over vigilance

When we don’t take responsibility, we keep waiting—for someone else to change, to heal, to become who we need them to be so we can finally feel safe. And while we wait, life keeps moving.

The question becomes: What is mine to carry—and what isn’t?

Becoming Untangled

Real change doesn’t happen in a single moment of clarity. It happens through practice—learning to stay with yourself when fear arises, to release control without abandoning connection, and to rebuild self-trust after years of survival.

This is the work of becoming untangled.

Untangled was written for this moment—not when everything is falling apart, and not when everything is fixed—but when you’re awake enough to know something has to shift, and willing enough to begin.

You don’t need to rush. You don’t need to be perfect.You need to be willing.

That’s where freedom starts.