There are truths we carry that never ask for permission to be known—they simply live in our bones. This is one of mine.
I am the child of addiction. My first lullabies were silence and slammed doors. My childhood was a collection of almost—almost loved, almost remembered, almost enough. Whether I was planned or not has never been clear, but what I do know is this: from the start, I felt like an afterthought. Like I arrived before anyone was ready to receive me. And that feeling—the heavy ache of being unwanted—has followed me like a second skin.
If there were a billboard advertising abandonment, my face would be on it. Not out of pity, but recognition. People don’t always know what to do with someone who’s been shaped by shadows.
It’s strange, isn’t it? How the past never really let’s go. How the hurt echoes in different keys throughout our lives, long after the initial wound has closed.
I was maybe six or seven when my dad left me at the babysitter’s. It wasn’t just for the evening—it turned into weeks. My after-school stop became a temporary home. I waited for him every evening like clockwork. But 6 PM came and went. And then the next day. And the next. I remember rotating through three outfits. I remember the sting of kids laughing, asking if my parents had forgotten me. I remember toughing it out because what other choice does a child have?
But in that chaos, there was Ida—my babysitter. She bathed me, fed me, clothed me. And more importantly, she treated me like I mattered. Her care, her steady presence, her grace in a situation that was never hers to carry… it taught me compassion. It taught me not to judge a person by the mess they’re left to clean up. Ida loved me when no one else did. And that love stitched a piece of me back together.
Still, the echoes of being alone carried on. There were countless nights I made myself dinner. I put myself to bed, my only companion the hum of silence. The empty space in the room felt like a person of its own. And it stayed with me, all the way into adulthood.
As a child, I learned early that my voice didn’t hold much weight. My thoughts were mine alone. There wasn’t anyone listening. So, I stopped sharing. And now, as a grown woman, I see how that silence shaped me. I speak, and it feels like the words float into the air and dissolve. Not because they lack meaning—but because they don’t belong to me anymore. They belong to everything I do for everyone else.
Today, though, I had a moment of clarity. Painful clarity. I realized that I’ve spent so long speaking for others, showing up for others, being needed by others… that I no longer remember how to speak for myself. There’s nothing left that’s just mine. No story, no passion, no opinion that doesn’t circle back to someone else’s needs.
I am not uninteresting. But I am exhausted. I’ve lost myself in the service of others. And I don’t know how to be found.
So how does this all connect?
As a child, I didn’t fit in with kids my age. I had seen too much, felt too deeply, aged too quickly. While other kids shared stories about birthday parties and vacations, I stayed silent. What could I say? That my parents forgot me? That I was more familiar with vodka bottles than bedtime stories?
There were no family movie nights. No cozy library visits. No sweet surprises from candy shops. I didn’t grow up in experiences—I grew up in survival. And even now, decades later, my life continues to revolve around everyone else’s needs, just as it did then.
The thread of being unwanted isn’t just about who left me—it’s about how I learned not to choose myself. It’s about how silence became my shield. How I gave and gave, hoping to finally be chosen.
But today, I see it. I see the girl who was left behind. And I see the woman she became.
She is not unwanted. She is weary. But she is still here.
Still hoping.
Still trying.
Still fighting to be found.
Masked Mom
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