There are parts of my story that feel almost too heavy to put into words. But silence has never made them go away. The past has a way of sitting quietly in the background, shaping how I see myself and how I move through the world.

I wasn’t raised in a home shaped by alcohol. I was raised in a home shaped by abuse. My parents, the people who were supposed to protect me, were instead the ones who hurt me the most. Their abuse was emotional, physical, and sexual. As a child, I didn’t have the language for what was happening, but I knew I wasn’t safe. I learned to keep quiet, to shrink, to survive.

Those lessons didn’t vanish as I grew older. They followed me into adulthood. I still catch myself doubting whether I deserve kindness, or bracing for pain even when none is coming. Abuse teaches you to expect the worst, and unlearning that is one of the hardest parts of healing.

In part, I’m still very much stuck in that cycle. The worst has become a safety net for me. If I expect disappointment, I won’t be surprised. It’s the most painful comfort blanket imaginable, wrapping me in a promise that I’ll never be hurt again, yet keeping me from feeling true happiness or joy. When you live inside worst-case scenarios, there’s no space left for gentler thoughts. Even the smallest moments of peace are muted by fear, the fear that if I let myself feel happiness, when (not if) it fades, the fall will be too painful to bear. Because somewhere deep down, I still believe that nothing good happens to someone like me.

What is someone like me? There are moments when I feel like I was made from something lesser; a quieter thread in a world woven from colour and noise. I move through days carrying a shadow of difference, not the kind that shines, but the kind that isolates. My reflection feels blurred, misshapen by years of silence and smallness. I’ve learned to hide behind words, behind smiles, behind the fear that if I were ever truly seen, people would turn away. There’s a heaviness that whispers I will never be enough. That I am something broken, unworthy, forgettable. Sometimes I wonder if I was ever meant to belong anywhere at all, or if I was always meant to exist just slightly out of reach.

For a long time, I told myself to just get over it. But you don’t just walk away from a childhood like that. It stays with you, in your body, in your thoughts, in the way you see yourself. Naming it, saying out loud that what happened was abuse, has been one of the hardest but most freeing things I’ve ever done. It reminds me that the weight I carry has a reason.

If you grew up in a home where love and harm were tangled together, maybe you know what I mean. The silence, the fear, the way you learned to be small. If that’s you, I want you to know you’re not alone. The shame doesn’t belong to us, even if it feels like it does.

Writing this is another step in laying down the weight. I can’t erase the past, but I can stop carrying it in silence. And maybe, if you’re reading this with your own heavy memories, you’ll feel a little less alone too.

Until next time, be gentle with yourself.