There should be a medal for making it out of a childhood that hurt you and not letting it turn you into someone who hurts others.
Not a metaphorical one. A real one. Heavy. Engraved. Maybe something you could wear around your neck that quietly tells the world: You have no idea what I’ve survived. And I’m still here.
Because let’s be honest—some people had Disney Channel upbringings. Family dinners. Reasonable bedtimes. Parents who were more into guidance than gaslighting. And then there’s you.
You, who maybe had to learn how to read the room before you learned how to read books. You, who figured out how to stay invisible by the time you were six. You, who still flinch a little when someone raises their voice—not because you’re dramatic, but because you remember.
You weren’t raised so much as endured.
And now you’re trying.
Trying to be kind. Trying to be functional. Trying to not yell when your body thinks yelling is the only way to get heard. Trying to show up for people even though no one ever really showed up for you.
You’re doing therapy. Or reading books. Or taking deep breaths in the cereal aisle of Target while your nervous system screams that you’re not safe—even though you are.
You don’t need to be perfect.
Let me say that again for the kid inside you who still believes love has to be earned:
You don’t need to be perfect.
You just need to keep choosing to be better than what tried to break you.
There’s no applause for this.
Nobody claps for you when you interrupt a generational cycle of trauma with a 30-second pause and a glass of water.
Nobody gives you a parade for deciding that your kids, or your friends, or your partner will get a version of you that’s learning instead of lashing out.
But I see you.
I see the way you double-check your words so you don’t accidentally pass the pain forward. I see how hard you work to create stability, even though you were built in chaos.
And yeah, sometimes you mess up. You shut down. You isolate. You say the wrong thing. But the fact that you care at all? The fact that you want to get it right?
That’s the difference.
That’s the revolution.
You’re not behind.
You’re not broken.
You’re just someone who had to learn things the hard way.
And even if your parents, or your caregivers, or whoever raised you—if they couldn’t give you the love you needed, you’re allowed to give it to yourself now.
This isn’t corny. This is radical.
Because there are people in this world who had everything handed to them and still move through life like everyone owes them something.
And then there’s you.
You, who had to fight to feel safe. You, who had to unlearn so much just to love normally. You, who had to become the person you never had.
You matter. You’re doing the work. You’re trying your best.
And some days, that’s nothing short of heroic.