The Silence That Shaped Me

The Silence That Shaped Me

There’s a part of me that still waits for her voice —
the soft, warm version of it that never existed.

A part that wants her to say:
“I see you. I’m proud of you. You’re doing so well.”

But she never has.
Not once in thirty years.

And I think today, as I sit here ill and a little depleted, that truth lands differently.
It doesn’t feel angry anymore.
It feels… honest.

Because the little boy in me still wants it —
still leans forward at the sound of her voice,
still hopes for something nourishing to finally come through.

But the adult in me sees something else:

She doesn’t have that to give.

Not because I’m unworthy.
Not because I haven’t fought through hell and built a life from nothing.
But because she never learned how to offer real connection without strings.

When she finally said she was “proud of me,” it felt like a line read from a script she didn’t believe in.
When she said she loved me, it felt hollow —
like she was saying the words because she knew she was supposed to,
not because the feeling lived inside her.

And looking back, I can see exactly why it felt empty:

She wasn’t responding to me.
She was reacting to distance.

Praise wasn’t love.
It was a tactic.
A subtle way to pull me closer.
To keep me in the role she understood:
the little boy who needed saving.

Because if I grew up,
if I became strong,
if I made decisions that made sense,
if I built a life on my own terms —
she wouldn’t know who she was anymore.

Her identity required my dependence.

And so anything that affirmed my independence was met with silence.

When I made choices that were grounded,
when I built stability,
when I separated myself emotionally,
when I trusted my own judgement —
she didn’t say, “Well done.”
She didn’t say, “I’m proud of you.”

She went quiet.

Not confused quiet.
Not reflective quiet.
But threatened quiet —
the silence of someone whose dominance or purpose feels at risk.

And as painful as it is to say this,
that realisation has freed me.

Because now I can see that I spent decades trying to earn something
that was never real in the first place.

I wasn’t starved of praise because I was lacking.
I was starved because praise would have meant letting me go.

And she couldn’t do that.

Her version of love was possession.
Her version of care was control.
Her version of pride was conditional.

So yes, the little boy in me still wants that warm, sincere voice.
He still aches for the mother he never had.
He still hopes, in moments of weakness or illness, for someone to say:

“I’ve got you. Rest. You’re doing so well.”

But the man I am now knows the truth:
Those words are mine to give to myself.

Not because I don’t deserve them from her —
but because she cannot offer what she never had inside her to begin with.

And that’s not my failure.
It’s not my deficiency.
It’s not my fault.

It’s simply the architecture of the past.

A blueprint I’m now choosing to rebuild.

One brick of honesty at a time.
One act of self-care at a time.
One boundary at a time.
One moment of gentleness with my younger self at a time.

She shaped me through silence.
But I get to shape myself through truth.

And the truth is this:

I am doing well.
I am growing.
I am building something real.
I am becoming the man she could never see.

And I don’t need her silence to define me anymore.