I Don’t Know What it Feels Like to be Safe.

Growing up, I was always afraid of being picked apart, especially by my parents. My father was harsh more often than he was kind, and even his kindness felt like a short break in a long storm. My mother, meanwhile, was still trying to find love herself, still searching for safety of her own. So emotional safety? It didn’t exist. Not for me.

I didn’t know what it felt like to be fully safe.

As a child, I learned to survive by shrinking. I stayed quiet. I performed. I hid my truth to avoid conflict. I became the good daughter, the one who fixed things, kept the peace, and swallowed her hurt. I thought maybe if I could just be enough, they’d finally see me. They’d finally love me.

But in doing that, I abandoned myself.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with the heavy truth that my survival mode didn’t start in adulthood. It was planted in my childhood. And now, as I navigate my life story with clearer eyes, I realize I don’t trust easily. I don’t feel safe enough to build trust. I’ve been living in a body that doesn’t know what it feels like to truly exhale.

It hit me the other day, watching one of my students laugh with her father. He made a silly joke and she smiled, teasing him back, completely at ease. I laughed too. But deep down, I paused. That kind of playfulness? That kind of safety? I never had that. Around my dad, I was on guard. Always anticipating the next critique. There was no softness. No room to breathe.

I remember feeling like a mistake, like I had to earn love that should’ve been unconditional. My dad didn’t display love, and my mom didn’t protect us emotionally. When he tore us down, we were told to “be respectful.” We weren’t allowed to speak up or cry out. We were silenced. And in that silence, I learned to quiet my pain and keep my needs small.

Years later, that silence followed me into my relationships. I ended up with someone just like my father, someone who saw my performance, my hunger for love, and used it against me. I kept trying to earn love, thinking if I showed up perfectly, I’d finally be enough. Instead, I was broken down even further. I wasn’t living. I was surviving all over again.

But here's what I’m learning now. I don’t give myself enough credit. Because the woman I used to be, afraid to speak, afraid to be seen, I’m not her anymore. These days, I use my voice more than anything. Even if my parents don’t fully understand how I use it, or why I speak so openly about the things they tried to keep quiet, that’s okay. It’s not for them to understand. It’s not for them to make sense of.

I used to feel like I had to sugarcoat my truth, make it softer, more palatable. But I’ve realized that the truth isn’t always meant to be sweet. Sometimes, the truth is sharp. And for people who aren’t ready to face themselves, the truth cuts deeper than silence ever did.

Still, this isn’t about bashing my parents. I love them. I know they did the best they could with what they had. They were carrying their own traumas, shaped by generations of emotional absence. They probably thought their way was normal. I don’t hate them, but I do wish they had been more emotionally present. I wish they had known how to make us feel safe.

So now, I’m learning to be that person for myself. I’m learning to create emotional safety within. I’m no longer asking to be chosen by people who never had the capacity to hold me. One day, I hope to be with a partner who doesn’t just tolerate my scars but holds them with tenderness. Someone who reminds me that I don’t have to perform to be loved. That softness is safe. That I am safe.

But until then, I’ll be that reminder for myself.