I am well aware of myself
my body, my emotions, and every subtle shift that passes through me.
I have learned that:
what I feel is mine to hold, mine to understand,
and mine to take responsibility for.
I choose to seek help
Not because I am weak
and not because I am searching for attention
Healing, to me, is an act of accountability
A decision to change what hurts, without placing the weight of it on someone else’s shoulders.
This is me trying to become better than who I was yesterday.
If there is another life, and if we are born again as parents and child, there are things i want to say.
To my mother:
Please don’t tell your children about bills and debts you can’t pay. Don’t make them feel guilty for wanting the things they deserve. Your children already know you’re tired. They know you work hard and still come home to take care of the house. But please don’t release your frustration onto them.
Your eldest is doing her best at school, at home, taking care of her sibling. She wants to welcome you home with warmth, to ask for help with homework without fear of being yelled at. Please don’t fight in front of your children. Speak kindly about your partner in front of them.
And please, don’t ever vent about your marriage to me. Don’t trauma-dump on me. I was just a child. Your child. I was never meant to walk on eggshells or carrying responsibility for your emotions. Be my safe place, be my bestfriend, be someone i can tell about my day. Teach me about life instead of leaving me clueless while I figure out alone.
To my father:
Work harder. Don’t take money lightly. Don’t throw financial and household responsibilities onto your partner. You are the head of the family, take the lead. Solve the problems. Treat your wife with kindness. Show love at home so it becomes a place of warmth and rest.
And please, don’t make promises you can’t keep.
“Tomorrow we’ll buy the toy.”
“Tomorrow we’ll go swimming.”
“Tomorrow we’ll go out.”
“Tomorrow i’ll pay back your money.”
“Tomorrow i’ll help.”
It was always tomorrow.
I waited for those tomorrows, believing them, holding onto them. But that tomorrow never came. And over time, I learned that hope could be postponed indefinitely, until it quietly turned into disappointment.
Don’t tell your children, “Even if your father is lacking, he’s tried his best. Someone else has it worse” ever again, you are not solving any problem by saying that. Was it really your best? because i’ve seen other fathers work day and night, sacrifice weekends, push through exhaustion instead of escaping, disappearing, or giving up when things get hard. Please don’t give up on us.
I was never too much. I was never too needy or too sensitive. I was simply a child asking for help that wasn’t available.
If i still choose not to live at home, please let me. I will come back often because i miss home. Call me often, ask about my day, my work, my struggle, not just to ask for money.
I’m not writing this out of hatred. i’m writing to protect my mental and emotional space. To process grief and anger deliberately. My therapist asked me to journal, to finally say what i’ve held in my chest for years.
Because silence keeps wounds unhealed.
Naming the pain allows me to validate it instead of dismissing it. It breaks the cycle of self-blame. It lets me grieve what i never had. Naming the wound doesn’t mean i don’t love or respect my parents, it means i’m honoring the truth of my inner child.
This is not blame. This is me finally telling the truth, and choosing to heal.
Part 1 : My Burning House
."For when you grow up in a burning house, you think the whole world is ablaze too," -Sara Anam
Yes, when you grow up in a burning house, you believe the entire world is on fire, and you learn to live with the heat. The crackle of flames becomes background noise. You assume this is how life is meant to feel. You think everyone must be living in the same chaos, surrounded by the same fire.
Every morning, you wake up bracing yourself for the heat. It feels like an invisible weight pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You learn to move quickly, to dodge the sparks that always seem to fall around you. Your heart races with the constant fear that they’ll touch your skin and burn you.
I don’t remember much of my childhood. But growing up, I wasn’t raised in what people would openly call an abusive home. My parents were there doing what i believe their best to give us love in their own way. But even in a seemingly stable environment, there were cracks that ran deep beneath the surface, cracks that caused permanent damage.
As I grew older, the hatred intensified. I felt pulled in two directions, never knowing which side was the right one to choose. There was no peace, no stability. The emotional turbulence I grew up with didn’t fade, it magnified. That toxic cycle of distance and harshness became the foundation of how I understood relationships, leading me into patterns I didn’t even realize I was repeating.
I spent most of my 20s resenting myself for failing to put out the fire, for not saving everyone as if it were my responsibility to fix it all. I forgot to save myself. And when I finally tried, the fire didn’t leave. It became a ghost, following me everywhere. I see flames where others see light. I feel heat even when the breeze is cool. The fire became part of me, convincing me the whole world was burning, because that’s all I had ever known.
