Not Every Home A Good Home

I left because she didn’t hear me. My mother and I — we always butted heads. Always. It wasn’t just small disagreements or little attitude moments; it was constant tension. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much I kept quiet or held in my feelings, it was like we could never meet in the middle. The frustration built up over time, until I felt like I was suffocating in the silence between us. No matter how hard I tried to make her understand, I always seemed to be the one at fault. No matter how much I bent, it was never enough.

I got along with my dad more than I ever did with her. With him, there was a little more peace. With him, I didn’t have to walk on eggshells, always waiting for the next blow-up. With him, the air wasn’t always thick with unspoken resentments. With her, there was always something — an argument, a comment, a tone that felt like I didn’t belong. I tolerated my mother, but deep down, I was always hoping for more. Hoping she’d see me — really see me — as someone worthy of love, not just as a rebellious child to be punished or ignored.

Of course, I begged for things. I was a child. A preteen. A teenager living under my parents’ roof. That’s what kids do — we ask, we push boundaries, we act out sometimes. But that doesn’t mean we deserve to be punished with silence, threats, or exile. The desire to be seen and heard is a basic need, and when it’s denied, it leaves a mark on you. It’s the kind of hurt that stays with you long after the words have been spoken and the doors have been slammed. I just wanted to feel like I mattered.

Yes, I begged. I wanted things I didn’t always get, but I asked because I was trying to feel normal — to feel like I mattered, like my wants and needs meant something in that house. But no matter how much I asked, no matter how much I tried, the walls never came down. It was always the same: you’re asking too much, you’re being selfish, you’re acting out. And I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just be given that one thing — that one moment of peace where I felt like I wasn’t invisible.

There was one time — one “yes” — that changed everything. They usually said no, but this time, when I asked, it led me right back to a place I never wanted to return to. A situation that felt like betrayal. Because even after everything, I was still just a kid trying to feel safe, trying to feel loved. I didn’t know how much I was still holding on to the hope that things could be different, that maybe — just maybe — this time things would be better. But when that “yes” led me to a deeper disappointment, I realized that nothing was ever going to change. It wasn’t about the yes or no. It was about the constant letdown — the constant reminder that my needs didn’t matter, that I didn’t matter.

What hurt the most was how someone I trusted — someone I saw as a second mother — let me down, too. We talked. You helped me. You told me to open my eyes to how things really were. You saw how my mother acted. You saw the bragging, the pride, the manipulation. You knew how unstable it was. But when it came down to it, you told me to go home. Because I “had a home to go to.” I wanted to scream. You knew what I was dealing with, yet you told me to go back. You saw my pain, my confusion, and yet you sent me back to the very place that caused it. You couldn’t even protect me, and I didn’t know who I could turn to anymore.

But what people don’t understand is — not every home is a home. Just because I had a house with a bed and people in it doesn’t mean I had peace. It doesn’t mean I felt protected. And it doesn’t mean I should have been forced back into a place that hurt more than helped. You can live somewhere and still feel like a stranger in your own space. You can sleep under a roof and still feel exposed. It wasn’t a home to me — it was just a place where my body existed, not my spirit. I needed more than just shelter. I needed love, I needed understanding, I needed safety.

A home should be where you’re safe, where you’re wanted, where your voice matters. Not where your presence is just tolerated. Not where your cries for help are ignored or used against you. Not where your childhood feels more like survival than growing up. A home is supposed to be a refuge, not a battlefield. But my refuge was always in question. My refuge was a house that never felt like a home.

I didn’t leave to make a scene. I didn’t leave because I was ungrateful. I left because staying meant losing myself. I could no longer be that person who quietly accepted the pain and the silence. I couldn’t be that person who waited for love that never came. It wasn’t just about wanting a better relationship with my mother; it was about wanting a better relationship with myself. It was about protecting my peace, my mind, and my heart.

It was about realizing that I had the right to protect my own well-being, even if others didn’t understand. It was about accepting that I didn’t owe anyone a version of myself that I wasn’t proud of, that I didn’t recognize. I didn’t owe anyone the quiet, broken child I had been pretending to be. I owed myself the chance to heal, to grow, and to find the love and peace that had been denied to me for so long.

And to the ones who saw me, heard me, and then still sent me back — I hope one day you understand. I hope you see that choosing to protect my peace wasn’t rebellion. It was self-preservation. It was the only way I could save myself from disappearing entirely in a house that didn’t truly know me. I had to choose myself when no one else would.

Because again: not every home is a home.