(This is Part 2 of my personal series: "The Light I Found In The Dark").
I’ve been told I’m strong. I’ve been told I’m brave. But the truth is I didn’t feel like either of those things growing up.
Most of my early years weren’t shaped by love, but by survival. I learned very quickly how to read a room before I could read a book. How to walk on eggshells without being taught. How to anticipate chaos because in my world, it was never “if,” only “when.”
One of my deepest wounds came from the adults I was supposed to trust. The ones who were meant to protect me told lies instead. They used me as a scapegoat, twisted my loyalty into silence, and made me doubt my own reality. Betrayal didn’t come from strangers, it came from the people I called family.
There was no space to be soft. No time to ask for help. I didn’t know what comfort felt like. I only knew how to stay invisible.
I carried the weight of secrets like armor. Held back tears like they were dangerous. And when I finally moved out alone, unprepared, terrified, it wasn’t because I was fearless. It was because staying would’ve destroyed me.
Looking back, I realize I never got to be a teenager. I was a parentified child. A caretaker. A peacemaker. A witness.
But even in solitude, peace didn’t come. What met me instead was emptiness, depression, and a grief so deep it had no name.
Because when you grow up always bracing for impact, it’s hard to recognize who you are when the noise finally stops.
No one saw those years. The quiet ones. The suffocating ones. The ones where I was just trying to exist.
But I see her now, the girl I was. And I hold her close. Because she’s the reason I’m here. She’s the one who kept going. Not out of hope but out of sheer instinct.
And that, to me, is a strength no one clapped for. But it’s the kind that builds unshakable foundations.
Thank you for reading this far. This series isn’t easy to write. But I promised myself that if I was going to hold space for others, I’d do it without skipping the parts that hurt.
If you're walking through your own silent years, I see you. You’re not weak. You’re enduring in ways most people will never understand. And you deserve more than just survival.
I’ll be back soon with Part 3.
But for now, thank you for sitting with me in this remembering.
With tenderness,
Eileen