They Meant Well — But It Still Hurt

There’s a special kind of confusion that comes when the people who love you the most are also the ones who hurt you in small, invisible ways. Not because they want to — but because that’s the only language they know.

“They meant well.”

That’s what I’ve been taught to say after hearing something that stung a little too much. A comment about my weight. A joke about my skin tone. A warning not to “get too ambitious.” A compliment laced with conditions — “You’re pretty for someone your colour,” or “You’d be perfect if you lost a little weight.”

They meant well.

But it still hurt.

Growing up in a brown household, love didn’t always sound soft. It came in the form of criticisms meant to protect. Warnings meant to “toughen me up.” Comments that were supposed to “motivate” but felt more like quiet digs.

You learn early on that your worth is often measured through comparison — to cousins, to classmates, to an imaginary version of yourself that always could be “better.” Thinner. Smarter. Quieter. More obedient.

I remember one time, after getting a 80% on an exam I had studied for all week, an aunt smiled and said, “Why not 90%?”

Not out of malice. Not because she didn’t care.

But because in her world, praise had to come with a push.

And in those moments, it becomes hard to separate love from expectation. Hard to tell if they’re proud of who you are — or just who they want you to become.

Microaggressions in the Living Room

We talk a lot about microaggressions in academic or workplace settings, but some of the most persistent ones happen at home.

The uncle who jokes that you should stop eating that roti if you want a husband.

The cousin who calls you “too Western” for wearing shorts.

The family friend who says, “Don’t be too dark — no one will marry you.”

Everyone laughs. You smile awkwardly. And inside, a little part of you wilts.

The worst part? You’re made to feel like the sensitive one for not laughing along. Like you’re overreacting. Like you’re ungrateful for questioning the tone of what’s been said.

But these things add up. They build a version of you that starts filtering everything — how you speak, dress, eat, and even succeed — through the lens of what’s acceptable, or "not too much."

Conditional Love Feels Like a Contract

What happens when the love you receive feels like it depends on how well you perform?

How “good” are you?

How much do you suppress the messy, complicated parts of yourself?

You grow into an adult who doesn’t know how to take up space.

Who apologises before speaking.

Who says “I’m fine” even when you’re not.

Who feels guilty for resting, crying, asking for help, because somewhere along the way, you learned that love was something to earn, not something freely given.

And the hardest truth to admit?

Sometimes, the people who raised us with the most care also passed down the most pain. Not because they didn’t love us, but because they never got to unlearn the pain passed down to them.

Choosing a Softer Future

So, what do we do with this? With the love that came wrapped in expectations? With the comments that left invisible bruises?

We start by naming them.

Not with anger, but with honesty.

We start by setting boundaries — even if they’re met with confusion.

By reminding ourselves that our worth doesn’t shrink or grow depending on how perfectly we fit a role.

We love our families. We honour their sacrifices. But we also recognise that “they meant well” shouldn’t be the end of the conversation. Because meaning well is not the same as doing well.

Healing isn’t about blame — it’s about breaking the cycle.

So that one day, we can offer love that doesn’t come with conditions.

Compliments that don’t cut.

And protection that doesn’t feel like pressure.

Because we deserve to feel safe in the spaces that raised us.

And when that isn’t possible, we deserve to build new ones