The Wounds I / We Carry: A Personal Story and Reflection on Childhood Trauma and the World We’ve Created as I Suffer Again Tonight - The Vulnerable Me

I'm so willing to be raw here because this needs to me known cause this is you too.

I needed to share this, and I want to emphasize that I am okay. I love my parents; they did the best they could, and they are there for me every single day.

Tonight, I witnessed something that shook me to my core. A young boy, crying in the hallway, repeating the same words over and over and over again, suffering in a way that was all too familiar. It went on for what felt like an eternity—his voice desperate, pleading, breaking.

Then I realized what he was saying: "Sorry. Please let me in. Let me in."

His words hit me like a wave, knocking the breath from my lungs. He had been locked out. A child, abandoned in the hallway, begging for connection, for safety, for love. His cries carried the weight of helplessness, of confusion, of fear that no child should ever have to feel. And then—

The door burst open. A man—his father, I assume—stormed out and banged on the wall with such force that it shook me. His rage filled the space like an explosion. I could feel the violent energy reverberating through the walls, through my chest, through the child’s sobs that only grew more desperate.

And I broke.

Tears poured from me like a flood. Not just for him—but for me. For the little boy I once was. For the childhood I had locked away inside myself, pretending it didn’t shape me. But in that moment, I felt it all. The fear, the helplessness, the understanding that expressing emotions was not safe. That anger was normal. That punishment was love. That silence was survival.

I see now how easy it is to be deeply wounded, to be scarred for life. People talk about trauma like it’s some massive, catastrophic event, but sometimes, it’s just this. A moment. A wound so quick and so deep it never truly heals. And I see now how many people today are walking around carrying those wounds—hurling their pain at strangers, tearing each other apart, because the world taught them that’s how you survive.

I wonder about those people, the ones who throw spears at others without a second thought. Were they treated even worse? Were they shut out, abandoned, forced to wear a mask just to be accepted? I had it pretty good compared to some, and still, the scars run deep. I don’t blame my parents. I blame this world, this society. I blame all of us. Because we allow this cycle to continue.

And I used to stay silent about it. I used to shut down, to wear my own mask, to pretend I was okay even when I wasn’t. But I can’t do it anymore. I won’t. Because I see it now—this is how it happens. This is how we lose ourselves. How we become people we don’t even recognize.

As a child, I learned that it wasn’t safe to be me. That punishment came swiftly for those who showed too much, felt too much. And now, as adults, we don’t even recognize it for what it is. We call it "discipline" or "tough love," but it’s something else entirely. It’s fear. It’s control. It’s a slow, methodical stripping away of innocence and trust. It’s the kind of wound that festers and grows until one day, we wake up and realize we’ve become just like them—the ones who hurt us.

This world is filled with people walking around with those wounds, lashing out, hurting others because they never healed. And it makes me sick. It makes me want to check out, to escape the madness of it all. But I can’t. Because if I do, then I become part of the silence.

So I write this in my suffering, in my tears, because it’s the only way I know how to express this pain. I write for that little boy in the hallway, for the child I used to be, for everyone who has ever felt unseen, unheard, unloved.

I write because I refuse to accept that this is just the way things are. Because I want the world to wake up. To see. To feel. To stop throwing daggers at each other just to hide from their own pain.

Because we can do better. We must do better.

Or we will lose ourselves completely. 😭

Thank you Mom and Dad your always there for me. Love you both.

I needed to share this, and I want to emphasize that I am okay. I love my parents; they did the best they could, and they are there for me every single day. I hold no resentment toward them because I know they, too, were shaped by the world that raised them. They weren’t given a manual on how to heal their own wounds before raising a child. They did what they knew, what they believed was right, and I know their love for me has never wavered.

I see now that they carried their own pain, their own unspoken struggles, just like we all do. And despite it all, they have stood by me, supported me, and continue to show up in my life. They have grown, just as I have. We have learned together, and that is something I am deeply grateful for.

This isn’t about blame. This isn’t about resentment. This is about understanding that we all come from something, that we all have a story, and that healing doesn’t mean pointing fingers—it means recognizing, forgiving, and choosing a different path. My parents gave me love in the ways they knew how, and today, I honor them for that.

And while I wrote this, with tears in my eyes, I messaged my mother: I love you, and I miss you. And she wrote the same back.

Thank you sooo much. To the parents that are always there, even when life made it hard for them.