The Parental Wounds

She wasn’t cruel, my mother. In fact, she loved deeply — but it was a fragile kind of love. Her fear was always there, humming beneath the surface. Fear of making the wrong choice. Fear of what others thought. Fear that something terrible might happen. Fear of the world around her daily. And sometimes, that fear spilled onto me.

She needed me to be careful. Safe. Predictable. Mistakes weren’t just mistakes; they were disasters narrowly avoided. So, I tried to be what she needed — the good child, the calm one, the one who didn’t add to her burden.

But the cost of keeping her calm was losing sight of myself.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking what I wanted. The older I got, the more she tried to control me. Choices became terrifying because I never learned how to trust my own voice. I doubted myself constantly — was this the right thing to say? Would this decision disappoint her? And even when I stepped into adulthood, that hesitation followed me.

And the guilt — that was the hardest part. Anytime I asserted myself, even in the smallest ways, a weight settled in my chest. I could still hear her voice, trembling with worry, passive remarks, asking “Why would you do that?” "What is wrong with you?” or “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I wasn’t always sure of those answers but constantly doubting me and having little faith in my abilities made me feel everything except self-assured.

What I didn’t realize then was that I wasn’t wrong for wanting independence. The ability to make my own decisions. I wasn’t selfish for needing space and privacy. And I wasn’t responsible for her happiness — I never was.

Healing didn’t mean blaming my mother. It meant understanding that her fears weren’t mine to hold. And with that understanding came freedom — the freedom to live without the weight of guilt, without the fear of disappointing someone just by being myself.

I remember the silence. Not the comforting kind, but the thick, heavy silence that hung in the air when my father came home. You never knew which version of him you’d get — the charming, laughing man who’d ruffle your hair and tell stories, or the one who stumbled through the door, eyes glazed, voice sharp. Either way, I learned quickly: stay small, stay quiet, stay out of the way.

My father was unpredictable. One moment he could be proud, showering me with compliments if I did something good that he could somehow take credit for and he had a good buzz. But the praise never felt steady. It came with a price — his affection often felt transactional, like I had to earn it. I told myself that if I worked harder, achieved more, maybe he’d see me. Maybe he’d choose me.

But he never did. Even when he was physically there, it felt like he wasn’t. And the emptiness he left behind became something I carried.

I became a master of people-pleasing. Reading the room, anticipating moods, trying to keep the peace — these were my survival skills. If I could sense the storm before it came, maybe I could stop it. Maybe I could control it.

But what I never realized was how that storm followed me. Even as an adult, I feared rejection. I avoided conflict at all costs, terrified that one wrong move would make people leave. I said “yes” when I wanted to say “no.” I twisted myself into versions of what I thought others wanted, all while losing sight of who I really was.

And beneath it all was the voice — that small, relentless voice that whispered: You’re not enough. If you were, he would have stayed.

But here’s what I’ve learned: that voice isn’t the truth. It’s the echo of wounds I didn’t ask for but carried nonetheless. And healing those wounds doesn’t mean pretending they’re not there. It means facing them — with compassion, with courage, and with support.

You deserve peace. You deserve clarity. You deserve to feel whole.