Telling my story. For the ones who learned to be strong too early — this is for you.

I learned early on to rely on myself. My childhood shaped me in ways I only started to understand much later. My mom was dealing with her own life challenges, and my father wasn’t present.

So I began holding back — trying not to make my mom any sadder than she already was.

I remember hearing:

“I don’t have time to listen to you.”

“Just be a nice child.”

“Don’t cry.”

“I don’t have the strength for this.”

And so I stopped sharing. I suppressed my needs. I tried not to be “too much.

”Tried to shrink myself, take up less space. To not want too much. To not ask for help.

I learned I was responsible for myself. That the only person I could truly rely on was me.

But growing older, I began to feel the weight. The unspoken words. The hidden emotions.

All the moments I needed comfort — but gave it instead.

I became strong — but tired. Capable — but alone. Independent — but out of touch with what I really needed.

It took me years to see that being “too much” was never the problem. My voice, my needs, my feelings — they were never wrong.

Now, I’m unlearning. Softening. Asking for help — even when it feels unfamiliar. Trusting others — even when it feels risky. Letting myself feel, not just function.

I’m learning to care for the little girl inside me. To listen to her.

Let her cry.

Let her rest.

Let her dream again.

But the story didn’t end in childhood. Later on, my mom chose again — a man who wasn’t emotionally available. And suddenly, I was back in it.In the chaos.

Fights.

Tears.

Her crying in front of me, asking me what to do.

And once again — I became the adult in the room.

Her anchor. Her therapist. Her guide.

But I was just a girl.

Learning how to carry someone else’s pain before I ever got the chance to understand my own.

It taught me to be calm in storms that were never mine. To hold space for others when no one was holding space for me. To keep the peace, even if it cost me my voice.

And now, as an adult,I don’t want to shrink anymore. I don’t want to hide my emotions or silence my needs just to make others comfortable.

I want to be seen.

I want to be heard.

Even if it challenges someone.

Because my voice matters.I matter.

But I’ve also learned: Being heard doesn’t mean silencing others. It means presence.

It means listening deeply — just as I want to be listened to.

So I speak with honesty and tenderness. I express my truth without attacking. I hold my ground without closing my heart.

I say, “This is what I feel.”

And ask,“What do you feel?”

I don’t want to perform being “nice” anymore.I want to be real.

To find the balance —Not disappearing.Not dominating. But dancing in the space between.

And then one day, I saw it… The pattern I had absorbed.The dynamic I had grown up with — I had started living it too.

Choosing people who couldn’t meet me. Suppressing my needs to “keep the peace.” Being the strong one — again.

But no more.

Over the past few years, I’ve been unlearning not just what I was told, but who I was made to be.

And I’m returning — To the person I really am. The one beneath the survival. The one who feels deeply, speaks truthfully, loves fully.

Me.

And you know what? I’m not even angry at the women who came before me.

Because I see now —they were shaped too. By their mothers. By a world that asked them to shrink, to stay quiet, to put others first no matter the cost.

They were taught to survive, not to feel. To carry pain in silence and call it strength. To give, give, give — even when they were empty.

This doesn’t excuse the pain —but it gives it context. It softens the sharpness. It turns blame into understanding. And it makes the choice to break the cycle even more sacred.

Because I’m not just healing for me —I’m healing for them too. For the women before me who never had the space to speak their truth. And for those who will come after me who will grow up knowing they’re allowed to feel, to rest, to ask, to take up space, to be fully, beautifully themselves.

And I’m returning —

To the person I really am.

The one beneath the survival.

The one who feels deeply,

speaks truthfully,

loves fully.

Me.

If this speaks to you, you’re not alone. Let’s keep healing out loud.