There’s a question that has lingered in my mind for years, and it always gets louder when I’m around children. When I see a child who harbors the fear of doing something wrong or has the need to people please for love or shrinks himself under a cloak of invisibility, I’m reminded of the quiet ache inside me as a kid. In those moments, I also recall the stories others have told me about growing up invisible, unheard, or unprotected. And the question arises again: Why do some children grow up wrapped in love and safety, while others learn survival before they learn joy? Why do some children get to be children, carefree and guided, while others are forced to become resilient before they ever had the chance to be soft? Why do some of us spend adulthood trying to heal wounds we never asked for, trying to build emotional safety from scratch, while others simply receive it? I don’t have a complete answer. Maybe I never will. But after months of sitting with this question, sometimes crying with it, I’ve found the beginning of an answer. In this week’s blog, I discuss the answer to my question to leave you with a sense of hope and possibility.
I grew up in a household where my birth was celebrated, which is a huge deal considering I am a girl born in the 80s in a heavily patriarchal society. Thankfully, I had food on the table, clean clothes, a safe home, and a decent education; however, I rarely experienced unconditional love, a sense of belonging, or the safety to just be a child.
There was constant instability and family conflict. I felt like I was always trying to earn love, approval, and my right to exist. I learned to be useful instead of expressive, good instead of authentic, and silent instead of seen. Today, I know that there was a massive disconnect between who I was and who I was becoming.
To plug that void, as a young adult, I searched for love in unhealthy relationships, for acceptance from people who would never give it to me, and happiness everywhere but within myself. Finally, I was burnt out from feeling empty and pretending that I had it together. At that crucial point in my life, I was encouraged to seek help. That was when I turned towards the pain instead of escaping it, and I haven’t looked back since that day. I rarely wonder why I had the childhood that I did, but when I see another child living out their trauma, I can’t help but ponder why.
There are kids who can cry freely, crumble safely, and grow in the beauty of unconditional love, but there are also children, like me, who learn to hold other people’s emotional weight before they even understand their own. They become emotional adults while still wearing school uniforms and spend years untangling beliefs like:
I don’t deserve kindness.
I must earn love.
Needing support makes me weak.
If I rest, I’m failing.
I have to fix everything and everyone.
I have to figure it out all on my own. Always.
It’s unfair, and it hurts, but the fact remains that some children inherit legacies of trauma instead of legacies of tenderness. I was one of those children who grew up doing emotional labor that was never mine to do.
Regardless, I’ve finally accepted that some of us are expected to be beacons of light for others when we’ve chosen to heal. Our pain, if dealt with, allows us to support and guide others in an unfathomable capacity. Our past grants us empathy to nurture others without judgment or fear. Our trauma lends us strength, compassion, and deep understanding. It becomes a voice for those who are finding theirs, and our heart expands exponentially to hold gratitude and pain in equal measure. We have the power to give because we learnt to give to ourselves when it wasn’t our responsibility to do so. We have the power to create a safe space for someone else’s vulnerabilities, because that’s what we did for ourselves and the adults around us. Our pain can be our power if we choose to deal with it.
I’ve also come to terms with the fact that the same beacon of light must first become the black sheep of the family and community. When one person in a lineage decides to heal, they don’t just heal themselves, but they interrupt a generational echo. Recently, I was speaking with my grandmother when she shared stories from her youth of loss, pressure, loneliness, duty, and emotional silence. That’s when I saw clearly that the pain didn’t start with me. In fact, it didn’t even begin with my parents. It was handed down quietly, subtly and automatically. Sometimes, trauma looks like emotional poverty, cultural norms, and a warped moral compass.
And for whatever reason, I became the one to say, “no, I’m not doing it that way.” I became that black sheep when I got divorced, became a pet mom instead of a human’s mother, and set boundaries with people I loved unconditionally. To others, the above was laced with disrespect, disobedience, betrayal, and distance.
If you relate so far, then have you considered that maybe you are meant to be the one to break the chain and be the change? Maybe that’s why healing is so hard for you. It’s not because you haven’t tried enough, but because you’re the one doing the work no one before you did.
As someone who grew up without emotional security, I can’t tell you how much kindness played a role in my life – then and now. Even today, when someone checks up on me, asks after my fur baby, or simply shows up, it means the world to me. It’s impossible for me to put into words how it feels to have someone in my corner. Kindness raised me in ways people did not. Today, it’s my responsibility to pass that forward to children, to adults, to animals, to anyone who needs gentleness in a harsh moment. Honestly, I don’t always get it right, but healing isn’t meant to make me perfect. Its purpose is to make me aware enough to know and choose better.
Speaking of awareness, it was a long time before I realized that the insecurities and damaging patterns of my childhood were making their presence felt into adulthood. It was easier to continue those patterns, because the alternative meant cultivating hope for a better me and a better future. I thought of having hope as foolhardy and delusional. Nevertheless, the day I embarked on being better, I unearthed years of such questionable beliefs and behaviors.
I worked on rewiring my sense of self, because hope and belief are an extension of our self-worth. When I hoped again, and when I believed again, I became less fearful. I thought less and did more. I hated myself less and empowered myself more through kindness and curiosity.
If you’re still carrying childhood pain, then I hope (there’s that word again!) you know that you didn’t deserve what happened. You never failed; in fact, you survived, but that is not the end of your story. Healing marks the end, and that’s a life-long process, so you’re here to stay, my friend 😊
When the child in you hurts, remember that you have a difficult choice to make about whether you will become the adult that you needed, whether you will become the safe place that you never had, and whether you will be the person who ends the cycle instead of passing it on.
Like I said earlier, I don’t have a complete answer to my question of why some children endure more than others. I wish there were no chosen ones, but I’ve come to believe that some martyrs can also be winners for themselves and heroes for others. If you experienced any amount of childhood trauma, then please know that you have a choice to be that winner and hero. What’s done is done; now go do what you deserve to do.
As always, I am here to support you all the way. I hope you keep in touch with your stories, thoughts, and feedback. If you wish to learn more, please stop by www.imperfectbodies.com. Lastly, if you enjoyed this information, then please share it with others.
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All the best,
Chaitni