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(GiYN Blog)
There was a kind of pain he tried to hide.
I recognized it instantly—
because I carried the same weight in my chest.
When my parents’ presence wasn’t there,
I learned to gather myself in silence.
No comfort. No reassurance.
Just the quiet understanding
that I had to survive my own storms.
I had one friend—
someone who offered a shoulder without questions.
No spotlight. No noise.
Just a small, sacred space
where I didn’t have to pretend I was strong.
Growing up, affection confused me.
Kind words felt unfamiliar.
Warmth felt temporary.
So I pushed it away—
not because I didn’t want it,
but because I feared needing something
that might disappear when I needed it most.
It felt safer to reject love
than to miss it.
I was often seen,
but never truly known.
No one asked what lived inside my thoughts—
so eventually,
I stopped asking myself too.
Fear settled in quietly:
rejection,
abandonment,
misunderstanding.
So I became quiet.
I only spoke when I felt safe—
and safety was rare.
I knew I was capable of more,
but anxiety always arrived first.
It whispered failure before I could begin.
And I listened.
I punished myself
for mistakes that didn’t even exist yet.
Somewhere along the way,
I believed that if I hurt myself first,
no one else could.
So I became my own critic.
My own enemy.
My own punishment.
My room became my sanctuary.
Behind closed doors,
I spoke the words I could never say out loud.
Practiced conversations.
Rehearsed courage.
Every day was preparation
for a world that never felt safe enough
to meet me halfway.
But looking back now—
I see it differently.
I wasn’t weak.
I was protecting a heart
that learned too early
that love was not always guaranteed.
And maybe healing doesn’t begin
with questioning who we were—
but with understanding
that we were surviving
with the only love we knew
how to give ourselves.
Some stories aren’t meant
to be understood by everyone.
Some are only meant
to set the writer free.
I learned to carry pain so quietly, even I forgot it was heavy.
