I WAS RAISED, NOT HELD

There’s a kind of emptiness that grows quietly in childhood, when your emotions stay inside more than they are spoken.

I love my mom. I really do. I respect her deeply, and I know how much she has done for me and our family. That love is real and constant.

But alongside that love, there is something I have always struggled to understand in myself.

It is the emotional dependence I naturally long for, but don’t know how to express or receive in the way I see others experience it.

I see people who can go to their parents without hesitation. They go to their mothers for comfort, to cry, to speak freely, to feel emotionally held. And they go to their fathers for reassurance, for that quiet sense of protection that says, “You are safe, I’ve got you.” There is balance in that kind of emotional support, and sometimes I find myself noticing what it feels like to miss both sides in different ways.

And I wonder why it doesn’t feel that complete for me.

Growing up, I learned independence early. I am 20 now, and in many ways I have handled responsibilities and emotional weight that people my age don’t usually have to carry this early. I became someone who learned to manage things alone, not because I wanted to, but because I slowly had to.

Over time, I stopped expecting emotional support even when I needed it.

There is no father figure in my life, and I think that absence created a space where reassurance, that quiet feeling of being protected, was something I had to build within myself. At the same time, my emotional dependence on my mother exists in a different way, but it is not always met with the kind of openness I sometimes wish for.

Even simple things feel difficult sometimes. I find myself rehearsing what I want to say before asking anything. Not because I am afraid of my mother, but because I am afraid of how it will be received. That small habit says more about me than I often admit.

And still, there is a part of me that quietly wants more.

Not more love, but more visible love. The kind that is shown without needing a reason. A hug without hesitation. A conversation that doesn’t feel like I am carefully stepping through words. A space where I don’t have to prepare myself to be understood.

I often tell myself that maybe this is just how she is. Maybe this is how she learned to love. And I try to understand that.

But understanding something doesn’t always replace what your heart needs.

So I learned to hold it in myself instead.

Still, I don’t want to carry everything forward the same way.

Because one thing I know for sure is this: when I build my own life, I want it to feel different for the next generation. I want my children to speak freely without fear of reaction or judgment. I want them to come to me without rehearsing their words. I want emotional safety to feel normal, not rare.

Maybe I didn’t always have that growing up. But I can make sure it doesn’t end there.

And maybe that is what healing looks like. Not erasing the past, but choosing to build something softer from it.