This is not a complaint letter to my parents. I need to say that first.
Parenting is perhaps the most difficult job in the world. No one teaches you how to do it. There is no manual, no training, no performance review. You are just handed a life and told, “Now, raise it with love.” And my parents did exactly that, to the best of their ability.
I had a rich childhood. Not rich in the way the world measures richness, but rich in love, in care, in facilities, in safety. I never had to doubt if there would be food on the table or a roof over my head or hands to hold me if I fell. For that, I will always be grateful.
_but still…_
Sometimes when I try to look back and find the best part of my childhood, something strange happens. I do remember the events — the birthdays, the school functions, the festivals, the vacations. I remember the pictures. But attached to almost every memory, there is a small numbness. A small vacant space.
I remember the first time I got second rank. I was so happy. First time ever. On stage, all the names were called. All were awarded. And my name — my Principal just skipped it. I’m sure she missed it by mistake. She must have. It wasn’t intentional. But still… why me only? Everyone got their moment, and I just sat there clapping for others, waiting for my name that never came. I smiled like nothing happened. I went home like nothing happened. But something did happen. A small part of me stayed back in that hall that day. If I could raise her now, I would go back to that hall and tell her — it was a mistake, yes, but your hurt was real. You were second. You deserved to be called. You deserved your clap.
A thought that comes uninvited: What if it had been handled a little differently? What if the people around me had responded a little differently in that moment? Would I have turned out to be a different person today? More expressive. More joyous. Happier in the real sense of the word, not just the photogenic sense.
_the sensitive child…_
I think I was a very sensitive child. And I don’t mean that as a flaw. I mean it as a fact. I felt things deeply. A small scolding felt big. A small praise felt like flying. If I was upset, I cried. If I was happy, I laughed loudly. If I was confused, I asked too many questions.
What I needed in those moments was not a solution. I needed understanding. The bare minimum kind of understanding — that what I am feeling is normal. That it is okay to cry when you are overwhelmed. It is okay to be upset when things don’t go your way. It is okay to be angry, to be jealous, and to be scared. Those emotions are not misbehavior. They are human behavior.
But often, instead of understanding, I got a label.
“You are always so emotional.”
“You cry over everything.”
“You are overreacting.”
“You are too sensitive.”
I heard these so many times that after a point, I started believing them. I started thinking that there is something wrong with the way I feel. That my emotions are too much. Too loud. Too inconvenient for others.
_how I started disappearing…_
And slowly, without even realizing it, I started to edit myself.
First, I stopped explaining myself. Because I assumed people would take it the wrong way anyway. Why try to explain your heart if it will be called drama?
Then I stopped sharing my daily life. Because if my big feelings are too much, then my small stories must be boring. So I kept the day to myself.
Then I stopped sharing my feelings altogether. I learned to swallow the lump in my throat. To smile when I wanted to cry. To say “I am fine” when I was anything but.
And finally, I stopped telling people what I want. What I am seeking. What I need. I thought wanting something, asking for something, made me needy. So I learned to not want. Or at least, to not show that I want.
In that process, I lost myself somewhere. And I am still searching for her.
_two people in one body…_
People who know me today might not see this. On the outside, I function. I work, I laugh, I show up, I take care of people. But on the inside, I often feel like two different persons living in one body.
One is the person I want to be — open, expressive, soft, unafraid to ask for love, unafraid to show tears, unafraid to take space.
The other is the person I turned out to be — guarded, overthinking, always scanning the room to see if I am being “too much,” always holding back.
There is a strange rage of anger that lives inside me. It doesn’t have a name or a face. I don’t know who it is for. Sometimes it feels like it is for the moments when I was not heard. Sometimes it feels like it is for myself, for not speaking up sooner. It just sits there, quiet on most days, loud on some.
_the things I still can’t do…_
The smallest things still trigger the oldest wounds.
If I have to cry in any situation, even now, my first instinct is to control it. To push it back. To go to the bathroom and cry alone. Why can’t I just let my tears roll down? Why does crying still feel like I am doing something wrong, when crying is the most normal thing a human body can do?
If I have to go away from home, even for a few days, I don’t sleep properly the night before. Not because I am packing, but because I am anxious. What if I start crying at the station? What if people see me crying while leaving? What if they think I am being childish?
And when I am lying alone on my bed, feeling low, all I want is someone to hug me and say, “It’s okay.” Not fix me. Not advise me. Just hug me. But I cannot ask for that hug. Not from my partner. Not from my family. Not from my friends. Because somewhere in my childhood, I learned that asking for comfort is a sign of weakness. So I lie there, waiting for someone to notice, while the person I love is in the next room, not knowing I need them.
And why do I expect people to be nice to me just because I have been nice to them? I know it sounds fair, but life doesn’t work on fairness. I kept being nice, accommodating, adjusting, and understanding everyone else’s emotions, because I wanted someone to understand mine in return. That return is harder to get than heaven. And every time it didn’t come, I felt more invisible.
_intention and impact…_
I know this behavior might seem very normal to many people. Many of us were raised like this. “Don’t cry.” “Be strong.” In our parents’ generation, success was survival. They wanted their children to be strong enough to survive in a tough world. So they taught us to toughen up. They didn’t know that in teaching us to be tough, we would forget how to be soft with ourselves.
I don’t blame them. How could I? They gave me what they had. They gave me what they thought was best. Their intention was never to hurt.
But intentions and impact are two different things. And the impact stayed.
_if I could raise her again…_
If I could raise my younger self, I would do only a few things differently. Not big things. Small things.
I would sit down at her level and say, “You are crying. That’s okay. Do you want to tell me why?”
I would not call her emotional. I would call her feeling.
I would not tell her she is overreacting. I would tell her, “This feels big for you right now. I understand.”
I would teach her that asking for a hug is not weakness, it is courage. That saying “I need you” is not burdening someone, it is trusting them.
I would let her be angry without calling her disrespectful. Let her be sad without calling her dull. Let her be joyful without calling her too loud.
I would make sure she knows that she doesn’t have to earn love by being nice all the time. That she is worthy of niceness even when she is not at her nicest.
I would hold space for her vacant spaces, so they don’t become vacant forever.
_in the end…_
So no, this is not a sad story. I am not unhappy today. I have a life I have built with my own hands. I have people who love me. I have moments of real, deep joy. I am healing, slowly, in my own way, on my own timeline.
It’s just that — I am happy today, but I think I would have been happier if those early feelings had been handled with a little more care. Because childhood doesn’t just stay in childhood. It walks with you into every decision you make. Into who you choose to love, how you choose to leave, whether you choose to stay, whether you ask for help, or whether you suffer silently in bed thinking no one will understand.
If I could raise my younger self, I would tell her — Baccha, you were never too much.
You were always just enough.