effects of childhood abuse 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

Tom always said he was fine.

He had a stable job. A wife who loved him. Two kids who climbed into his lap every evening.
His life looked “normal.”
He even laughed loud at dinner parties.

But no one saw the way his hands clenched every time someone raised their voice.
No one saw how he flinched—just slightly—when his son cried too hard.

No one knew about the dreams.
The ones where he was eight again. Standing in that hallway.
Hearing footsteps.
Holding his breath.
Waiting for the door to slam.

The Past Was Supposed to Be Gone

Tom was thirty-eight.
He had survived.

He told himself:

“What happened is over.”
“I’m not a child anymore.”
“I don’t need to talk about it.”

So he didn’t.
Not when his therapist gently asked.
Not when his wife noticed he pulled away during arguments.
Not even when his son asked,

“Dad… were you ever scared when you were little?”

Tom smiled.
Changed the subject.
Laughed it off.

But inside—
the silence screamed.

What You Hide, Doesn’t Heal. It Festers.

There was no one big moment that broke him.
It was the little things. The nothing moments. The quiet.

When his daughter spilled her milk and braced for yelling.
When a friend said “You’re just like your dad,” and Tom’s stomach twisted.
When he caught himself zoning out during a bedtime story, staring at the wall… lost in a memory he thought he had buried.

That’s the thing about trauma.
You don’t bury it.
You carry it.
In your body. In your tone. In your silence.

And one day, Tom sat in his car outside his house, keys still in the ignition—
and whispered out loud for the first time:

“I’m not okay.”

The Breaking Wasn’t the End. It Was the Beginning.

That whisper changed everything.

He didn’t call it healing at first.
He just started talking to someone.
He wrote letters to the boy he used to be.

He stopped pretending.

He started telling the truth.

“You can’t heal what you hide.”
And maybe the bravest thing Tom ever did
wasn’t surviving what happened—
but choosing to face it.

He didn’t do it alone.
And you don’t have to either.

If you’ve been carrying something like Tom…

If there’s a memory you never talk about,
a silence that still aches,
a younger version of you still waiting to be held—

Please,
don’t wait another year.
Don’t wait until it explodes.
Don’t wait until it bleeds into your children, your marriage, your dreams.

The past shaped you.
But it doesn’t get to control your future.
Not anymore.

Healing is possible.
Not by pretending.
But by remembering—
with kindness.
With support.
With people who see you.

You’re not broken.
You’re hurting.
And hurt can heal—when it’s no longer hidden.

🕯️
This one’s for Tom.
And for every child still hiding inside an adult who’s trying to keep it all together.

Tag: effects of childhood abuse

They Only Touched Me When They Were Angry