They don’t really talk about the grief that comes with growing up in a toxic household.
Not the grief of someone dying—
But the grief of someone never being who they were supposed to be.
You know what I mean?
That ache you can’t quite explain when people talk about “mom and daughter spa days” or “calling dad for advice.” That sting you swallow every time someone says, “But that’s your family,” as if that alone should’ve been enough to make it safe.
It’s hard to grieve what you never had.
It’s even harder to admit it hurt.
For a long time, I thought I was just dramatic.
That maybe I was the problem. Maybe I just needed to “let it go” or “stop living in the past.”
But trauma doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t leave just because you’re tired of carrying it. It lives in your nervous system, in the way your shoulders tense up when someone raises their voice, in the way you apologize for existing.
Growing up in a toxic home is like trying to build your sense of self on quicksand. One moment you're safe, the next you're sinking, and nobody’s throwing you a rope.
You learn how to shrink yourself to avoid being a target.
You become the peacemaker, the overachiever, the “strong one.”
You develop a sixth sense for mood shifts—walking on eggshells becomes second nature.
And all of that becomes normal… until it isn’t.
Until you’re older, sitting in your own silence, realizing you never really learned how to be loved properly because you were too busy surviving.
Here’s the thing nobody prepares you for:
You don’t just mourn what happened.
You mourn what should’ve happened.
The hugs you never got.
The unconditional love that never showed up.
The childhood that was robbed from you while you were too young to understand it was even being taken.
But let me be clear—this grief doesn’t make you weak.
It makes you aware.
And awareness is where the healing begins.
You are allowed to miss people who hurt you.
You’re allowed to outgrow people you once believed you couldn’t live without.
You are allowed to say, “That wasn’t okay,” even if nobody else gets it.
And you’re damn sure allowed to protect your peace, even if that means cutting family off.
That’s not betrayal. That’s self-respect.
So if you’re sitting there wondering why you still flinch at kindness, or why you cry over things you can’t name—
You are not broken.
You are grieving.
And healing.
At the same time.
Give yourself permission to be angry, confused, relieved, numb, resentful, sad, and grateful—all at once.
This is the chaos of healing from something you never asked for.
You are not too much.
You are not too sensitive.
You are not a bad daughter or son for finally choosing you.
Some people got a childhood.
Some of us got a survival story.
Either way, we’re still here—
and that, my love, is powerful.
