coping with childhood trauma Archives - Love Right

From: A girl who never felt safe in her own home

Dear Grandpa Eli,

I’m eleven. But some days I feel like I’m fifty.

I know that sounds weird. But when you grow up the way I did, you don’t get to stay a kid for long.

At home, no one ever held my hand unless it was to pull me away roughly. No one ever kissed my forehead goodnight. They only touched me when they were angry.

I remember once, in second grade, I fell on the playground. I scraped my knee really bad. My friend’s mom came to help, and she gently brushed the dirt from my skin. Just that little touch made me cry harder than the fall. I think it was the first time someone touched me with kindness.

At home, kindness didn’t exist.

Dad drank. Mom yelled. The house always smelled like burnt food and something worse I could never name. I learned to tiptoe, to whisper, to disappear.

I got really good at reading faces. I could tell when the storm was coming — in the way Dad’s jaw clenched, or how Mom slammed the cupboard just a little too hard. I would hide in my closet, with my pillow over my ears, pretending I was somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm.

Sometimes, I’d imagine you there, Grandpa Eli.

I don’t know why. Maybe because your stories feel like a hug I never got.

Maybe because you sound like the kind of grown-up who would have noticed that my smile was fake. That my eyes were always watching for danger.

I wish someone had asked me, “Are you okay?”

I wish someone had said, “You don’t deserve this.”

Because deep down, Grandpa… I thought I did.

I thought if I was better — quieter, more helpful, less needy — they would stop yelling. That maybe they would hug me instead of hitting. That maybe I could earn love.

But I never did.

Now, when someone gets close, even in a good way, I flinch.

My teacher tried to put a hand on my shoulder when I answered a question right — and I jerked away.

She looked surprised. I said I was fine.

But I wasn’t.

I still don’t know what love feels like.

I only know what fear feels like.

Is there a way back, Grandpa Eli?

Can a girl like me — who’s always been afraid of touch — ever learn to feel safe in her own skin?

Please write back.

Even if it’s just to say I’m not broken forever.

From sad girl – E.M

Reply from Grandpa Eli

My sweet girl,

I hear you.

I read every word of your letter with tears behind my old eyes and an ache in my chest that only a child’s pain can bring. And even though I cannot reach through this page to hold your hand, I need you to know something — something so important that I want you to read it slowly and let it sink deep, like sun into soil:

You are not broken.
You never were.

The people who should have wrapped you in love, who should have made you feel safe, didn’t know how. Not because you were unlovable — oh no, dear — but because they were lost. That was never your fault.

You were just a little girl who needed soft arms and kind voices… and instead, you got fear. You learned to disappear not because you were invisible — but because you were surviving. You became an expert at reading danger, because no one taught you how to receive peace.

That little girl in the closet with her pillow over her ears?
She was so brave.
And she’s still inside you, waiting to be held.

You asked me if there’s a way back.
There is.

The way back begins not with touch, but with truth.
And here’s one I want you to carry in your pocket like a warm stone:

“You never had to earn love.
You were born deserving it.”

One day — maybe not today, maybe not for a while — someone will reach for your hand, not to hurt you, but to hold it gently. And your body might flinch. That’s okay. Healing takes time. Trust takes time. But that little girl who learned to hide? She can learn to step into the light.

And I’ll be here, every step. Listening. Cheering you on.

If no one’s ever said it before, let Grandpa Eli be the first:

“I see you.
I believe you.
And I love the strong, sensitive, surviving soul that you are.”

You are not the anger they poured onto you.
You are not the bruises they left behind.
You are not the silence that swallowed your voice.

You, dear one, are hope with a heartbeat.

With all my love and steady arms,
— Grandpa Eli

For some people, closets are for coats.
For others, they’re for secrets.
And for many who’ve lived through childhood trauma, they were a place to hide from storms that had names like Dad or Mom.

This is the story of Maria—an HR assistant, a “model employee,” a grown woman—who found herself frozen in the supply closet of her office one afternoon.
Not because of a fire. Not because of a panic attack.
But because the air smelled like old wood and paper.

And that smell transported her 25 years back—into the tiny hallway closet where she once hid from violence, believing that silence meant survival.

This isn’t just her story.
It’s for anyone who learned too young that being invisible felt safer than being loved.

When the Closet Becomes a Refuge

Maria was six the first time she was told to hide.
Her mother whispered, “Go, baby, go,” as the front door slammed and her stepfather’s drunken footsteps stomped down the hall.

Maria ran.

She knew the way.
Down the hallway. Past the bathroom. Into the coat closet—wedged between her mother’s church dress and an old vacuum.

She waited there in the dark, holding her breath while screams and crashes shook the floorboards.
Sometimes for minutes.
Sometimes for hours.

In that space of mothballs and silence, Maria made a home.
She imagined her own version of safety: a mother who didn’t cry, a man who didn’t rage, a world that didn’t shatter every Saturday night.

But closets weren’t magical. They were just wooden tombs that taught her how to disappear.

How Childhood Teaches Us Silence Is Safer

As Maria grew older, she never talked about the closet.

She didn’t tell friends.
She didn’t mention it in college essays.
She didn’t cry when her therapist asked about her childhood.

She just smiled.
Told people she “grew up fast.”
That she was “independent.”

And she was.

She graduated early. Held down two jobs.
Worked her way into HR leadership before 30.
She was praised for being “calm under pressure,” “unshakable,” “professional.”

No one saw that beneath the professionalism was a girl still hiding.

Because Maria learned young that speaking up had consequences.
That asking for too much made people leave.
That expressing pain made you the problem.

So she stayed quiet.
Even when coworkers interrupted her in meetings.
Even when her partner mocked her weight in public.
Even when she felt the need to scream.

The Supply Closet Breakdown

It wasn’t a dramatic moment.
Just another Tuesday.
She was gathering office supplies before a training when she stepped into the closet and closed the door behind her.

And then it hit her.
The scent. The stillness. The shape of the doorknob.
It wasn’t a closet anymore—it was a portal.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her body remembered what her brain had buried:
The screams.
The pounding.
The silence that followed.

Maria dropped the clipboard and sank to the floor, shaking.

But this time, she wasn’t six.
And she wasn’t alone.

When Another Child Helps You Meet Your Own

Just the day before, a new intern had walked into her office.
Nervous. Apologetic.
He’d made a mistake on a document. His voice trembled.
When Maria raised her voice—gently—he flinched.

It stopped her cold.

Because she knew that flinch.
She was that flinch.

So she sat him down.
Handed him a glass of water.
And said something she’d never said out loud—not even to herself:

“It’s okay.
You’re safe now.
Nobody’s going to hurt you here.”

Those words came back to her now, sitting on the floor of the supply closet.
And they weren’t for the intern anymore.
They were for her.

Reclaiming the Voice You Buried to Survive

Maria didn’t need to shout.
She didn’t need a confrontation or a grand apology.
She just needed to feel what she had once been forced to silence.

She whispered:

“I’m not hiding anymore.
I was never bad.
I was just scared.”

It wasn’t a lightning bolt.
But it was a beginning.

That afternoon, she told her manager she wanted to lead next quarter’s diversity training.
That night, she told her partner they needed to talk—about respect, about boundaries, about whether love should feel like walking on eggshells.

And the next morning?
She walked into the supply closet, grabbed what she needed, and walked out.

Just like that.

No panic.
No past chasing her.
Just a woman with a purpose—no longer hiding between the coats.

What the Closet Represents in So Many of Our Lives

Psychologically, the “closet” isn’t always physical.
It can be:

The fake smile at the family table
The years of people-pleasing
The way we apologize before we even speak
The unspoken rule that “nice” girls and boys don’t make noise

We carry our closets with us.

We shrink ourselves in relationships.
We silence our needs in workplaces.
We ignore red flags because we were taught love is earned, not given.

But the truth is this:

You don’t have to hide anymore.

How to Begin Speaking Again

You may not be ready to shout.
You may not even be ready to whisper.

But here are small ways to begin unlocking the door:

🧩 1. Notice the Flinch

Where in life are you shrinking?
Who do you fear upsetting—and why?

🪞 2. Speak Kindly to the Child Inside

Try saying:

“I’m sorry you had to hide.”
“You didn’t deserve the fear.”
“You’re allowed to speak now.”

✍️ 3. Write the Letter You Never Sent

To your younger self. To your abuser. To the world.
Even if you never send it—write it. Name what was never named.

🗣️ 4. Say One Thing Today

Tell a friend how you really feel.
Set a boundary.
Even if your voice shakes.

Conclusion: From Supply Closet to Safe Space

Maria’s journey didn’t end in that closet.
It began there.

Because healing doesn’t always start in a therapist’s office.
Sometimes, it starts with the courage to enter the room you once feared—and leave it with your head high.

So if you’re still hiding, still quiet, still apologizing for having needs—this is for you:

You were never the problem.
You were never too much.
You were just a child in a world that couldn’t love you the way you deserved.

But now?
Now you get to be the one who opens the door.

And walks out.

💬 Let’s Talk

Have you ever carried your “closet” into adulthood?
Are you still learning how to speak, set boundaries, and take up space?

Drop a 🧥 in the comments if you’re learning to live outside the silence.
Or share this with someone who needs to hear:

“You don’t have to hide anymore. You never did.”

Tag: coping with childhood trauma

They Only Touched Me When They Were Angry