How to Love a Wounded Daughter

First,

understand: she is not difficult,

she is hurting in a language

you were never taught to speak.

She is not cold.

She is conserving warmth.

Because too many times,

she gave all of hers away

and was told she was selfish

for wanting some back.

She is a garden planted in cracked soil —

the seeds were real,

but the ground was hardened by years

of silence passed off as strength.

You may not see her wounds,

but that does not mean she bleeds less.

She walks through rooms

holding invisible splinters —

words said in anger,

apologies that never came,

hands that only reached out to discipline,

never to hold.

Her voice is soft now,

not by nature,

but by necessity.

She learned early that volume

was a privilege for those

whose pain was palatable.

Do not ask her why she cannot simply “move on.”

Ask instead what it cost her

to survive what you never noticed.

She is a daughter raised

in the shadows of should-have-beens —

should have been heard,

should have been hugged,

should have been allowed to cry

without being shamed for it.

She is both child and caregiver,

raising herself

while keeping the peace at the dinner table,

translating her feelings

into silence

so that no one else would feel uncomfortable.

How do you love her?

You do not rush her healing.

You do not pull her roots

because the blooming takes too long.

You do not water her with guilt.

You sit beside her soil,

you wait.

You offer safety

without demanding a smile.

Let her speak slowly.

Let her hesitate.

Let her correct herself mid-sentence,

because her words were once punished

before they ever reached her lips.

Do not confuse her quiet with absence.

She is present —

but watchful.

She learned to study the moods of others

before entering a room.

She knows how fast love can turn into a lesson.

She has been told,

“Don’t be so sensitive,”

so often

That now she doubts every feeling

before she even feels it.

She has wrapped herself in bandages made of metaphors,

calling her anxiety “just tired,”

calling her sadness “just one of those days.”

She will laugh in the middle of heartbreak.

Do not mistake that for healing.

It’s just easier than explaining.

She wants to be loved,

but not in a way that feels like debt.

Not in a way that asks for her story

as payment for affection.

She will flinch at softness

before trusting it.

Not because she doesn’t want it,

but because she has been promised tenderness

that turned into blame.

She wants to be chosen —

not tolerated.

She wants to be understood

without needing to be dissected.

She is not your redemption arc.

She is not here to make up

for anyone’s regrets.

Love her by doing the work.

Read the books.

Unlearn the patterns.

Apologise — not just for the past,

but for the habits you still carry

in the corners of your voice.

Don’t tell her she’s overreacting.

Tell her you’re listening.

Don’t fix her.

Love her in pieces

and in progress.

Hold her without holding her back.

Let her cry.

Let her scream.

Let her be angry

without fearing she’ll be unloved for it.

And when she builds walls —

Do not take them personally.

Just be someone worth opening the door for.

One day,

She will plant flowers

where pain once grew.

She will raise children

who don’t have to guess

whether they are loved.

She will break the cycle

you thought was unbreakable.

And you will see her

not just as a daughter,

but as a revolution

in soft skin.

Loving her

is not about saving her.

It is about seeing her

when no one else ever did.

It is about giving her

what she needed as a child —

now, as a woman

still learning

how to need.

So if you love a wounded daughter,

do not ask her to forget.

Ask her how to begin again —

and promise

to begin with her.