The Scars of My Childhood

What happens when you grow up unmothered, unheard, and still have to carry the story alone.

I grew up in India. Small towns first, then Delhi. Whatever you've heard about it, it's true. I went through things no child should ever go through. Not once or twice. Constantly. I never had a safe place to land. I was never emotionally held through anything.

Photo by Trym Nilsen on Unsplash

My mother was emotionally absent. My father only cared about academics. Marks. Prizes. How I came across. What others thought. He didn’t care about how I was feeling or what I needed emotionally.

Maybe because he never got that growing up. Maybe neither of them did. And now, as an adult, I can see that. But as a child, you can’t. You just feel abandoned. You just know something is missing, and no one can explain why.

Together, they made sure I always felt alone. Unseen. I started raising myself very early. I built an inner self that could carry me through. I had no choice. My only dream growing up was to become fully independent. That was the goal. Total self-reliance. No one could hurt me if I didn’t need anyone.

I learned how to act like I was okay. Like I had it together. I forced myself to be confident just to survive. It became a performance. A full-time job. And it worked, until it didn’t.

I became a mother. The sheer exhaustion and fullness of it took away all my pretenses. I didn’t have the time or energy to keep up my old coping strategies. I couldn’t bedrot all day being in a funk with my favourite shows. I couldn’t emotionally eat in secret. I didn’t have the space to hide. Everything I buried rose to the surface. Fast.

And now I feel like I’m falling apart.

I see other mothers thriving. Smiling. Having more kids. They make it look easy. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m drowning with one. I can’t even recognize myself some days. I’m just tired.

What makes it worse is that my parents don’t see it. They have their own version of my childhood. It’s neat. Selective. Convenient. So once again, I carry the truth alone. I mother myself while I mother my son. And I try, every day, to give him what I never got.

And yet, that little girl I used to be, the one who was never protected, never fully seen, she still lives inside me. Now that I can see the pattern, I know I can’t keep hiding behind old coping strategies. I want to step into my full self. Into the life I was always meant to live. I truly believe it’s possible. I’m determined to make it happen. Through healing. Through sharing. Through unlearning everything I thought I had to be. Through growing up for real this time.