Surviving the Storm

Not every child grows up with bedtime stories, warm hugs, and the feeling of safety wrapped around them like a blanket. Some of us grew up learning how to survive before we even understood what survival meant. We learned how to read facial expressions like maps, how to tiptoe through conversations, how to disappear emotionally to protect ourselves from the chaos around us. Some of us grew up learning how to read a room before we learned how to read a book.

This is for the ones who made it through, who crawled out of the wreckage of their childhood with scars, stories, and strength.

I grew up in a dysfunctional family. That word-dysfunctional- feels too soft for what it really was. Behind the closed doors of my home was a world of emotional instability, neglect, manipulation, and at times, abuse. There were days when I was invisible, completely on my own emotionally. Other days, I was the target. There was no consistency, no peace. Just survival.

I didn’t know that what I was going through was wrong at the time. When you’re a child, your normal is just normal. You think every family is like this, full of yelling, silence, tension, fear, unpredictability. You think love is supposed to hurt, or hide, or leave.

What hurt even more than the chaos was the absence of care. The moments I needed a parent, and there was no one there. The way I learned to stuff my feelings down so I wouldn’t be a burden. The way I took on guilt that never should have been mine. I thought if I could be perfect, quiet, helpful, maybe things would be okay. But they never were.

I carried that into my teenage years like a second skin, the hypervigilance, the self-blame, the emotional exhaustion. I watched other kids with their families and wondered what it would be like to feel safe, to feel truly wanted, to have a place where you could just be.

Getting to the end of my childhood wasn’t just a milestone. It was survival. It was a quiet victory. I didn’t have a graduation party or a big celebration, but I made it. I made it through years of emotional storms that no child should have to endure.

And here’s the part no one tells you, making it out is only the beginning. Healing from a childhood like that is a journey, one that’s painful, messy, and slow, but also incredibly powerful.

I’ve spent years unpacking what happened to me. I’ve gone to therapy. I’ve learned how to set boundaries with people who once made me feel small. I’ve cried for the child I once was, the one who needed protection and instead had to become her own protector. I’ve learned that healing doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t happen. It means acknowledging that it did, and loving yourself anyway.

I’ve also learned that I’m not broken. I never was.

Everything I did to survive, the emotional armor, the overthinking, the need to stay alert, those were adaptations. They helped me get through. And now, I get to gently lay them down. I get to replace survival with safety. I get to create a life that feels soft, stable, and kind. I get to be the kind of person I always needed.

Maybe you’re reading this and you’re still in the thick of it. Or maybe you’ve made it through and are trying to figure out what healing even looks like. Wherever you are in your journey, I want you to know something important…

You are not weak because of what happened to you. You are incredibly strong for surviving it.

You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to grieve. You are allowed to take as long as you need to heal.

You are not alone.

Your past may be part of your story, but it does not get to write your ending. That part? That’s all yours now. You’re the author of your own story now.

And I hope you write something beautiful.