The broken child inside me is still here. No matter how much time passes, trauma doesnât heal just because we want it toâespecially when we keep it buried, never speaking about it to anyone. But today, I want to share mine.
People often say that growing up in a complete family is a blessing. That having both parents under one roof is the greatest gift a child could have. I wish that were true. I wish a complete family always meant a happy home. But it doesnât. A complete family isnât the best giftâpeace is. A home where no one has to heal from a trauma they never asked for. A family where love is not just a word but something that is felt, seen, and lived.
I never had that.
Instead of praying for my family to stay together, I prayed for them to separate.
Itâs not something a child should have to wish for, but I knew, even as young as I was, that happiness would never find its way into our home. Some children dream of having a complete family, but I dreamed of mine breaking apart because their marriage had already shattered long before I was even born.
I grew up in a house where voices were always raised, where words werenât spoken to heal but to hurt. My parents fought constantly, throwing painful words at each other like knives, sharp enough to cut through flesh. Sometimes, those fights turned physical. And the worst part? My younger sister and I could only cry, only beg them to stop. But our voices never mattered. No matter how much we pleaded, nothing ever changed.
Every night, fear sat beside me, and every morning, it greeted me again.
I was scared of what would happen next. Scared that my older siblingsâthe only ones who could protect usâwould leave us behind, just like I always feared they would. Scared of the house that was supposed to be my safe place but never was. I grew up in fear, and that fear never truly left me.
That fear stayed with me, shaping the way I saw the world.
When people ask me if I want to get married, I hesitate. Of course, who wouldnât want a family of their own? Who wouldnât want to stand beside someone they love, to exchange vows in front of their loved ones and God? But even though I wish I could, my answer is always âNo.â
And every time, people dismiss it.
âYouâre just saying that now.â âOne day, youâll change your mind.â
They say these things as if I donât know myself. As if my reasons arenât valid. As if the trauma I carry can be erased with time. But how could they possibly understand? They didnât live my life. They didnât grow up watching their mother endure a loveless marriage just to keep a family together. They didnât witness the kind of love that destroys instead of nurtures. They didnât see the two people who made a vow to each other in front of God become strangers, become enemies, become nothing.
I know not all men are like my father, but how am I supposed to believe that when I was never shown anything different? I am traumatized. And that is something they will never understand.
How do I explain that the wounds my family left me with still linger in every part of me?
That my view of love and marriage isnât built on fairytales and happy endings but on pain and survival? How do I tell them that every man I meet reminds me of my father? That the thought of bringing a child into this world terrifies meânot because I donât love children, but because I refuse to let them experience what I did?
I donât want to have a family if I still have this trauma inside me. I donât want to create a home when I donât even know what a home is supposed to feel like.
I am traumatized. And no matter how much time passes, no matter how much I try to heal, the wounds I never spoke about are still here, still open, still bleeding.
