When Normal Isn’t Safe: Unpacking the Childhood I Thought Was Fine

I used to think every house had rules that changed depending on someone’s mood. I thought it was normal to tiptoe through your own home, careful not to breathe too loudly, careful not to laugh too hard. I thought everyone’s parents went silent for days after a fight, punishing with absence instead of words. I thought love looked like tension. Like guessing games. Like fear you couldn’t quite name.

It wasn’t until I left that house that I began to realize it wasn’t normal—it was survival.

Growing up, my childhood didn’t look dramatic from the outside. We weren’t on the news. There was no police tape, no one talked in whispers. We were the “quiet family” on the block. My mom made dinner every night, and my dad worked long hours. I got good grades. We smiled in pictures. But inside that house, the air was always heavy. Like walking through fog and hoping no one noticed how lost you were.

My father wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t violent. But he was cold. Withdrawn. Impossible to predict. His silence could fill a room, and it terrified me more than yelling ever could. He’d go days without speaking to me if I said the wrong thing. I learned quickly how to read the air, how to walk on eggshells that no one else seemed to see.

My mother was always on edge. Kind, but anxious. She spent most of her energy trying to keep things calm—especially when my father’s mood darkened. She called it “keeping the peace,” but I realize now it was just appeasement. We never spoke openly about feelings. Emotions were considered private, almost shameful. If I cried, I was being “dramatic.” If I got upset, I was “ungrateful.”

So I grew quiet. I internalized everything. I got good at pretending.

It wasn’t until I moved out—first to college, then into my own apartment—that I began to see the cracks. I remember the first time a roommate raised their voice during a disagreement and then… apologized. I waited for the silence to follow. For days of tension. For passive-aggressive remarks or cold shoulders. But instead, she said, “Hey, I didn’t mean to snap. I was stressed. Can we talk about it?”

I was stunned. That was it? No emotional hangover?

Little moments like that kept happening. Friends who checked in after tough conversations. Partners who asked how I felt, not just what I thought. Therapists who helped me realize that what I experienced had a name: emotional neglect.

It wasn’t abuse in the traditional sense. But it was the absence of safety. The absence of being seen. And that leaves its own kind of scar.

What I once believed was “just how families are” turned out to be deeply dysfunctional. It’s disorienting, honestly. You grow up thinking you had a relatively normal childhood—because it was all you knew. Then you’re out in the world, and you realize other people weren’t constantly afraid of disappointing their parents. Other people didn’t flinch at the sound of a door closing. Other people grew up safe.

And safety, I’ve learned, isn’t just the absence of harm. It’s the presence of warmth. Of validation. Of knowing you can mess up and still be loved.

I still struggle with this. I still freeze when someone is upset with me. I still feel like love is something I have to earn by being small, quiet, agreeable. But I’m unlearning it—slowly.

Therapy has helped. Writing has helped more. So has surrounding myself with people who know how to love out loud.

Sometimes, I mourn the childhood I didn’t have. I mourn the version of me who could’ve been louder, freer, sillier. The kid who didn’t have to grow up so fast just to keep the peace.

But I also try to honor the kid I was. She was smart. She was resilient. She kept herself safe the only way she knew how.

And now, as an adult, I get to offer her something better. I get to rewrite what “normal” means.

Not silence. Not fear. Not walking on eggshells.

But softness. Openness. Safety.

That’s my new normal.


Thank you for reading this 🥰.