The Wound That Was Never Mine | Embracing Authenticity

There is a wound that has quietly driven much of my life.

Not a surface insecurity.
Not low self-esteem in the usual sense.
But a deeper, more pervasive belief:

That I am fundamentally unlovable.

Not because of what I do —
but because of what I am.

For a long time, I didn’t see this belief clearly. I saw the behaviours instead.
The anxiety.
The over-responsibility.
The mistakes in relationships.

The constant sense that I must be the problem — that if something went wrong, it was evidence of a flaw in me.

What I couldn’t see for a long time was the driving force underneath it all.

A wound installed before words

This belief wasn’t chosen.
It wasn’t reasoned into existence.

It was installed early — likely pre-verbal — in an environment where the adults around me simply could not love me in the way a child needs to be loved.

That distinction matters.

They couldn’t love me.
But that does not mean I was unlovable.

As a child, I had no way of knowing the difference. When love is missing, the child always assumes the fault lies within themselves. That belief becomes the organising principle of the nervous system.

And once that belief is in place, everything else starts to make sense.

Behaviour as adaptation, not failure

Many of the behaviours I’ve struggled with — in friendships, relationships, and coping — were attempts to manage this wound.

Chasing brief moments of feeling lovable.
Clinging to breadcrumbs of connection.
Over-functioning.
Self-blaming.
Trying to earn what was never freely given.

Without awareness of the wound, it felt like I was simply failing repeatedly at life.

With awareness, something profound shifts.

When I sit with my behaviour — really sit with it, without judgement — it almost always makes sense.

Not morally.
Psychologically.
Emotionally.
Developmentally.

I’ve yet to encounter a part of myself, or another person, whose behaviour didn’t become understandable when met with enough context and patience.

The inner voice of blame

There has long been a voice inside me — one that insists I am fully responsible for everything that goes wrong in my life.

Every rupture.
Every misstep.
Every loss.

That voice feels authoritative, even moral.

But it wasn’t born from truth — it was shaped by early relationships where responsibility was misplaced, and shame replaced care.

Seeing that voice clearly has been painful, but liberating.

Because responsibility without compassion isn’t maturity.

It’s internalised punishment.

From toxic shame to understanding

This work hasn’t been about excusing behaviour or avoiding accountability.

It’s been about something much more radical:

Letting go of toxic shame.

The belief that I am bad every time I make a mistake.
The belief that nothing I do will ever be right.
The belief that love must be earned — and even then, is temporary.

What’s replaced it isn’t entitlement or denial, but understanding:

“Oh… that makes sense.”
“Of course you reacted that way.”
“No wonder that was difficult.”

From that place, real responsibility becomes possible — not the punishing kind, but the kind that allows learning and change.

Awareness first.
Feeling the impact in the body and mind.
Then, gently, making a different choice next time.

Mistakes don’t disappear.
But shame no longer runs the show.

Grieving what was missing

The most important part of this process hasn’t been insight.

It’s been grief.

Not the anxious grief that fuels rumination and coping behaviours.
But the quiet, honest grief of acknowledging:

I was never truly loved as a child.
Not consistently.
Not safely.
Not in a way that allowed me to rest.

Sitting with that truth — without minimising it or explaining it away — has been the most freeing thing I’ve ever done.

Because once the grief is allowed, the nervous system no longer has to keep searching for proof that it’s lovable.

What remains

What’s growing now feels simple, but profound:

self-trust
self-belief
a quieter confidence rooted in reality rather than performance

And perhaps most importantly — the ability to offer myself the unconditional positive regard I was missing, and from there, offer it genuinely to others.

This isn’t freedom from pain.

It’s freedom from the belief that pain means I am broken.