I think I’m triggered more often than I realise.
And not by dramatic events—but by the slow, daily drip of being reminded:

“I never had a parent who wanted me.”

Every day carries echoes of that fact.
Every time someone shares a memory of being loved, or grounded, or supported—even if it was just one moment—I realise again that I had none.
Not one safe adult. Not one anchor. Not one hug I can remember where I felt wanted instead of tolerated.

I didn’t grow up with “difficult” parents.
I grew up rejected. By both.
And I don’t know anyone else who really says that out loud.

One of my tutors recently questioned why I use a watch to track my stress levels.
She said something like, “Well, don’t you know how you feel? That’s a bit of a problem.”

I wanted to scream.
Not because of the comment, but because of what it missed.

Yes, I know it’s a problem.
But what she didn’t seem to understand is that the watch isn’t the issue.
The watch is the first tool I ever had that helped me see what no one ever mirrored for me growing up.

My body was always overwhelmed.
My feelings were never named.
There was no language for my experience—just shame, confusion, silence.

So yes, I use a watch.
Because no one ever taught me how to feel safe in my body, and I’ve had to learn that from scratch.

What stings even more is that this same tutor spoke about her father as an “oak tree”—strong, anchoring, reliable.

And I felt it again: jealousy.
Not proud of it, but honest.

Because I never had a father who made me feel safe.
Or a mother who made me feel loved.
And hearing someone speak so casually about having even one parent who was there… it’s hard to explain the ache that opens up in me.

It feels like the world is full of people who had something.
A parent who tried. A moment of safety. A glimmer of love.

And I didn’t get any of it.

Sometimes I try to intellectualise the pain.
I wonder:

  • Would it feel better if I knew more people had gone through this?
  • Would it be more valid if I weren’t the only one?
  • Am I just trying to prove to myself that it was “bad enough” to justify why I am the way I am?

But pain isn’t a competition.
And I don’t think you can measure trauma by volume.
Maybe it’s not like drowning in a puddle versus drowning in an ocean.
Because no matter what you drown in—you’re still gasping for air.
And that gasp is real. And personal. And impossible to compare.

So here I am, still gasping sometimes.
Still trying to untangle the wound that no one sees.
Still learning how to speak when no one ever listened.
Still trying to stay, when every part of me was taught to disappear.

And some days, I use a watch to check if I’m okay.
Because for me, that’s not avoidance—it’s presence.
It’s staying with myself in a way no adult ever did.

And if that’s not healing, I don’t know what is.