When Familiar Pain Wears a New Face

By Alex Watson
2025-11-29

Something clicked for me after that date — something that goes far beyond one evening, one woman, or one moment of discomfort. What I felt with her wasn’t attraction, or excitement, or possibility. It was something deeper. Something older. Something that lived in my bones long before I ever sat across from her.

It felt like she was trying, or suffering, or struggling to hold herself together… and that terrified her. But even more than that — it terrified me.

Not because she was a bad person, or because there was anything “wrong” with her. But because her intensity, her chaos, and her hunger for emotional safety felt painfully familiar.

It felt like home in the worst possible way.

The Shock of Recognition

There were moments where she shared things that were clear red flags — not just situational ones, but structural ones. The way she handled small moments, the way she spiralled internally, the way she reached for me and pushed me away at the same time. All of it reminded me of something I’ve carried for years without fully seeing.

She wasn’t showing up as a grounded woman.
She was showing up as someone’s wounded inner girl.

And my body reacted instantly.

Because that’s the same dynamic I grew up inside.

My Mother Didn’t Treat Me Like a Child

The more I sat with this, the more I realised something that feels both horrific and freeing to finally name:

My mother didn’t treat me as her child.
She treated me as her partner — emotionally, psychologically, and energetically.

She spoke to me as if I were someone responsible for her wellbeing.
She leaned on me in ways a child should never have to hold.
She needed me to understand her, soothe her, stabilise her.

And it wasn’t personal.
It wasn’t conscious.
It was survival.

She didn’t want a child — she wanted salvation.

Children become emotional partners because:

they can’t leave
they can’t set boundaries
they love unconditionally
they absorb pain without protest
they instinctively try to soothe the adult

I became the grounding force in my mother’s chaos,
because she never learned to ground herself.

And my nervous system never forgot it.

Repeating the Pattern Without Realising

Sitting across from that woman last night, I watched the same dynamic unfold:

She was overwhelmed.
She needed soothing.
She projected father wounds.
She wanted to be emotionally held by a man she barely knew.
She showed me suffering, hoping it would create closeness.
She didn’t know how to please me or meet me.
Her intensity filled the room before I even spoke.

And just like with my mother, I felt my body do something very old:

Go still.
Go quiet.
Go hyper-aware.
Try to stabilise the situation.
Try to be the safe one.

Except this time… something different happened.

I didn’t move toward the chaos.
I didn’t try to fix her.
I didn’t abandon myself for the sake of her comfort.

My adult self recognised the pattern instantly and said:

“No. This is not my role anymore.”

It Wasn’t About Her — It Was About My History

What happened last night wasn’t personal.
Not to her.
And not to me.

It was a mirror held up to a part of my life I never fully understood until now.

My mother wanted her children to heal the wounds she never faced.
She needed us to make her feel whole, proud, validated, worthy, safe.

That’s not what parenting is.
That’s what partnership is.

But I never got to be a child in that dynamic.
And last night, my body remembered that.

The chaos wasn’t attractive or alluring.
It was familiar.

And that familiarity used to pull me in.

But it doesn’t anymore.

The Freedom in Seeing It Clearly

There’s grief in recognising all of this.
But there is also profound acceptance.

Seeing this pattern doesn’t make me broken — it makes me aware.
It doesn’t make my mother a villain — it makes her human and wounded.
It doesn’t make the woman I dated “wrong” — it makes her unhealed and overwhelmed.

And most importantly:

It doesn’t make their chaos my responsibility.

Last night gave me a truth I didn’t know I needed:

I am no longer available to be the emotional partner to women who cannot hold themselves.

I can feel compassion for their suffering
without stepping back into the role I was forced to live as a child.

That is growth.
That is healing.
That is freedom.