Finding Grace in Becoming the Villain
I have been insulted more in the last three years since becoming a stepmom than in the previous forty-four years of my life. Cruel words sting. Character defamation hurts.
But it has gotten easier. I realized that while we have built a loving, peaceful, happy home together, some people remain trapped in the same grief, pain, and anger that first erupted when I entered their lives four years ago. It’s easier because I now feel compassion for them. It’s easier because I understand their comments were never truly about me—they were simply a way to release their own anguish. I just happened to be the nearest target.
And, in an attempt at levity, here are the Top Ten Most Ridiculous Insults ever hurled my way:
“You ruined my childhood!”
(From my husband’s oldest son, who was nineteen when I met him.)“He is a married man—and you’re killing her!”
(Referring to my widowed boyfriend at the time, and his late wife, whom I had never met.)Accusations that I killed Jack’s late wife so that I could get with him.
(Again, I had never even met her, and I did not know him when she was alive.)“The boys are not safe with you. God hates you.”
(Yes, they brought God into it.)
A long string of expletives.
(Creative, if nothing else.)“It must be so hard for you to know she will always be young and beautiful in his heart while you’re getting older—your hair graying, wrinkles coming. She will forever be his ageless, perfect love.”
(It is sad that she did not get to grow old.)
“You’re so much like her, but she was more beautiful, kinder, and a better woman than you could ever be.”
(Umm… okay.)“I was her friend, so I hate you on principle.”
(Again, okay.)
“Your husband is just waiting to die so he can be with her again. You know he won’t want anything to do with you in heaven.”
(A theologically incorrect assumption, but okay.)
“You should be grateful for her. The first wife gets the boy; the second wife gets the man. She’s the one who made him who he is—not you.”
(Thank you for telling me. I would hate to accidentally take credit for anything wonderful my husband does for the rest of his life.)
There are plenty more, but these are the ones that stuck. Perhaps because they were spoken with such venom—each one crafted to wound, to make me question my worth, my marriage, my family, even my right to exist in this space.
Thankfully, my sense of self no longer depends on the opinions of others. I know who I am. I see the love and peace we’ve built in our home. And I’ve learned that people who lash out are usually the ones still trapped in their own pain—repeating the same story while the rest of us quietly move forward.
Being a not-quite-mom has taught me that strength doesn’t always roar—it often whispers. It’s the quiet decision to keep showing up with love despite the noise, to let compassion outlast cruelty, and to choose peace even when others choose pain. In the end, grace is the best response to hatred, and love—the kind you build every day—is the most convincing truth of all.