I’m Done Protecting the People Who Couldn’t Love Me
June 06, 2025
I spent years hiding the truth to protect people who never protected me. But silence has a cost — and I’m no longer willing to pay it.
I used to be terrified of being seen.
Not just in the surface-level, social kind of way — but in the deep, soul-exposing kind of way.
The kind of being seen that says, “Here’s who I really am. Here’s what I really went through.”
And for a long time, I thought that fear meant something was wrong with me.
But I see it differently now.
My fear of being seen was rooted in reason.
Because when I was young, being seen meant being picked apart.
Being mocked. Dismissed. Shamed.
It meant being exposed in my vulnerability — and then left there, alone.
So of course I hid. Of course I kept things to myself. Of course I made my inner world invisible.
It was the safest thing I could do.
But that reason doesn’t exist anymore.
I’m not a child. I’m not trapped in that house. I’m not waiting for scraps of love from people who withhold it like punishment.
And suddenly, something clicked:
By refusing to be seen — by silencing the truth of my story — I’ve been protecting people who never loved me. And never will.
And… why?
Why am I protecting them?
Why am I shielding their reputations with my silence?
Why am I softening my truth to avoid upsetting the very people who let me suffer?
Why am I still trying to keep them comfortable while I carry the discomfort?
And then, of course, another voice rises in me.
That old, cutting voice. The one that says:
“Who even cares?
You sound like a whiny little child.
Why are you still talking about this?”
And for a second, I almost listen.
Because that voice is familiar — it was the background noise of my childhood.
But I pause. I breathe.
And I remember:
That “whiny little child” was just a child in pain.
A child who needed to be held, not silenced.
A child who was made to feel like needing love was a flaw.
So no — I’m not whining.
I’m witnessing.
I’m making space for the story I was never allowed to tell.
And if it makes someone uncomfortable, they’re free to look away. I’m not writing for them.
I’m writing for the child in me who still aches to be believed.
I’m writing for my son, so that he’ll grow up never doubting that his emotions are valid.
I’m writing for anyone else who’s still holding their breath, waiting for permission to speak.
You have permission.
And so do I.
I’m done protecting the people who couldn’t love me.
That job is over now.