I wasn't broken. I was never taught how to feel.
I was loved — in the best way my parents knew how. I have some incredible memories of feeling that love. But both of them were carrying so much unhealed pain, and none of us is ever taught how to face and heal our pain.
They did the best they could with what they'd been given. And like it does in every family, their pain became our pain. Not because they were bad, but because they were human — limited, perfectly imperfect, and just trying to survive their own stories.
My dad carried a rage that started with his own father. He wasn't cold, detached, or disinterested because he didn't love us. His childhood pain had taught him a survival strategy that said, "Feelings aren't safe. Getting close isn't safe." He was wounded and didn't know any other way.
My mom was adopted, became an alcoholic, and never had the tools either. No one taught them what to do with their pain, so it spilled onto us.
I was one of four kids in a home where emotions weren't felt — they were too big to feel, and never safe to talk about.



