Tears poured down my face as I sat curled up on the floor, alone in the wardrobe. I was a child, overwhelmed and drowning in emotions I didn’t understand. I kept wishing I was dead. I wished they were dead. I wished we didn’t know her. I even found myself thinking: If only we owned a gun.
It’s haunting to admit that now. But back then, in that moment, it felt like the only escape from the pain.
I had just finished lashing out at my parents—words shouted in desperation. I tried to explain how I was feeling, but nothing came out right. Instead, I was told my feelings were wrong. That I was selfish. That I shouldn’t feel what I was feeling.
I started telling myself that I must be the problem. That I was broken. That I was stupid. That something was deeply wrong with me.
If you’re a parent, ask yourself—are these the thoughts you’d want living in your child’s mind?
The Situation
Her name was Melanie.
She was a severely autistic girl who my mum had taken under her wing. Melanie was always around—at least once a week, but it felt like all the time. Mum would take her out on outings, host her at home, and give her undivided attention. If we were at school, mum was with Melanie. If it was the weekend, Melanie was often still there.
What Happens When Melanie Is Around?
When Melanie came over, two things happened almost every time:
- Mum was emotionally and physically unavailable. She became the attentive host, making sure Melanie felt welcomed, stimulated, and safe. But once Melanie left, it was chaos. Mum would be behind on everything else, and that’s when I had to step in—cleaning, helping, tidying.
- The house was disorganised. If Mum had spent the day out with Melanie while we were at school, mum was behind. Dinner wasn’t prepped and chores not completed. And instead of warmth when we came home, it was pressure. I was bossed around, expected to help, and scolded if I didn’t.
Worse, when Mum was overwhelmed and we didn’t do as she says, she would explode. Yelling at me making me feel guilty and obligated.
What kind of message does that send to a child about their worth and place in the family?
What It Meant for Me
As a young tween, I was starving—not for food, but for love. For attention. For the emotional presence of my mum or dad.
I didn’t feel seen or heard, I felt invisible. I felt like my petrol was completely used and I hadn’t been filled up. My emotional tank was bone dry.
So I did what undernourished children do when there tank is empty. I acted out.
What I Did
At 11 years old, I rebelled. I refused to do what I was told. I told my mum she didn’t love me. That all she cared about was Melanie. I said Melanie was over all the time and that Mum spent more time with her than with me.
This had been building for months. I’d been watching, comparing, hurting. And I just couldn’t understand why my mum chose Melanie over me, over and over again.
Melanie was just one example. My brothers’ soccer training took up five nights a week. There were always people to entertain. Always someone else who needed.
And I was always the one waiting.
I wasn’t equipped to say, “Mum, I need you to spend quality time with me as I feel unseen. I feel like you don’t care about me.” So I yelled. I blamed. I burned the bridge and hoped she’d notice the fire.
I was just a child, desperate for attention, doing whatever I could to be seen.
How My Parents Handled It
They responded the only way they knew how: with force and power.
They didn’t just match my emotion—they went three steps higher. Louder voices. Sharper words. Harsher judgment.
I was told I was selfish. Ungrateful. That I should feel lucky to be healthy, unlike Melanie. That I had everything and yet I complained.
They told me that my feelings were wrong. That normal people don’t feel the things I was feeling. That there must be something wrong with me.
It wasn’t the first time they said that. It wouldn’t be the last.
The Impact
Those moments etched themselves deep into me.
I learned to doubt my feelings.
I learned that love came with conditions.
I learned that being vulnerable would only get me hurt.
I carried the belief that I wasn’t worthy of love unless I was useful. Unless I was quiet. Unless I didn’t complain.
I grew up believing I wasn’t good enough, so I tried to earn love by constantly giving to others. Always hoping for their approval, craving their affection. The friendships and relationships I attracted were rarely mutual; they mirrored the one-sided love I’d experienced at home.
Deep down, I never felt truly happy or like I belonged, because I had never been taught how to receive love—only how to chase it.
Have you ever felt like you had to chase love, instead of just being loved for who you are?
Where I Am Now
It’s taken me years to untangle all of this.
To realise that my feelings weren’t wrong—they were signals. That love should never come with guilt or comparison. That my needs were never too much. And that I wasn’t broken for having them.
The truth is, my mother may never love me the way I need to be loved. She loves me in the only way she knows how. I can’t change that.
She still tries to use guilt to get what she wants. She cancels our plans if something better comes along, then justifies it without acknowledging the hurt it causes. She’ll likely defend her actions and make it seem as though I’m the one in the wrong.
And that’s okay.
That’s her choice.
My power lies in how I choose to respond. I’ve learned to lead with self-love and self-respect. I don’t react impulsively anymore—I pause, breathe, and respond with intention.
The Blessing
I truly believe that every challenge holds the seed of a lesson. Life doesn’t just happen to us—it happens for us.
As Tony Robbins says, “Life happens for you, not to you.”
I was an innocent child, and the adults around me didn’t know how to love and nurture me the way I needed. That wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. For so long I thought I was not good enough. I thought taking my life would be a better option. But those painful experiences shaped me—and today, they are my greatest teachers.
Because of them:
- I love my children with presence. I make a conscious effort to ensure that I find ways to give them love how they need and want. I notice when their outbursts are really calls for love, not discipline.
- I can sit with someone’s anger or discomfort without reacting because I know it’s probably not about me.
- In every interaction—whether with family, friends, or even clients—I try to focus on what they need, not just what I like. I’ve learned to tune into others with empathy and intuition.
That’s the gift in all of this.
If you’ve ever felt unseen, unloved, or pushed aside—I see you.
Your feelings are valid. You are not alone.
What hidden gift or strength do you carry now because of what you endured back then?
Leave a comment below and share the gifts you have been give from your personal hardship.
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