6 min read
mood: reflective
🗓
A Debt You Never Paid Off
I did not have a childhood. I had a schedule of surgeries and recoveries with some school in between. And the thing about missing your childhood is that it does not just disappear. It follows you. It sits in the background of your adult life like a debt you never paid off. You know it is there even when you are not thinking about it.
So now as an adult I try to go back. I buy silly toys. I go to places I wanted to visit as a kid. I chase the emotions I skipped over because I was too busy being cut open and stitched back together to feel them the first time around. It probably looks weird from the outside. A grown person getting excited about things most people got out of their system at ten years old. But I do not care. I am not doing it for them. I am doing it because something in me knows I missed it and wants it back.
So now as an adult I try to go back. I buy silly toys. I go to places I wanted to visit as a kid. I chase the emotions I skipped over because I was too busy being cut open and stitched back together to feel them the first time around. It probably looks weird from the outside. A grown person getting excited about things most people got out of their system at ten years old. But I do not care. I am not doing it for them. I am doing it because something in me knows I missed it and wants it back.
🏋 The Strong One
🏋
The Strong One
But there is another layer to this that goes deeper than just missing out on fun.
I grew up too fast. Not because I chose to but because my family made me. I had to be the strong one. That was my role. I was the kid going into surgery after surgery and I was not allowed to cry about it because crying was weakness. I was not allowed to feel scared or sad or angry because that meant I was not being strong. So I shut it all down. I boxed everything up and I performed strength for the people around me because that is what they needed from me.
Think about that. A child in a hospital bed being told not to feel. Not directly maybe. But through every look, every expectation, every time someone said how strong I was. That word became a cage. Strong meant I could not break down. Strong meant I could not ask for help. Strong meant I had to carry everything quietly and make it look easy.
I grew up too fast. Not because I chose to but because my family made me. I had to be the strong one. That was my role. I was the kid going into surgery after surgery and I was not allowed to cry about it because crying was weakness. I was not allowed to feel scared or sad or angry because that meant I was not being strong. So I shut it all down. I boxed everything up and I performed strength for the people around me because that is what they needed from me.
Think about that. A child in a hospital bed being told not to feel. Not directly maybe. But through every look, every expectation, every time someone said how strong I was. That word became a cage. Strong meant I could not break down. Strong meant I could not ask for help. Strong meant I had to carry everything quietly and make it look easy.
🎪 The Example
🎪
The Example
And it did not stop at being strong. I also had to be the example. I was the kid who had it harder than everyone else but still came out smiling. That was the story they told about me. At family gatherings. At church. To anyone who would listen. I was the role model. The proof that suffering makes you better. The inspiration.
Nobody asked me if I wanted to be that. Nobody checked if the smile was real. They just needed me to play the part because my pain made them feel something and they wanted that feeling wrapped up in a happy ending.
So I played it. For years. I was the strong one and the example and the role model and the inspiration. And underneath all of that I was a kid who never got to be a kid. Who never got to cry when it hurt. Who never got to say this is too much. Who never got to just be small and scared and taken care of without it meaning something to everyone else.
Nobody asked me if I wanted to be that. Nobody checked if the smile was real. They just needed me to play the part because my pain made them feel something and they wanted that feeling wrapped up in a happy ending.
So I played it. For years. I was the strong one and the example and the role model and the inspiration. And underneath all of that I was a kid who never got to be a kid. Who never got to cry when it hurt. Who never got to say this is too much. Who never got to just be small and scared and taken care of without it meaning something to everyone else.
""Getting It Back
I am still unpacking that. I am still figuring out where the performance ends and where I actually begin. Some days I think the silly toys and the childhood trips are not just about fun. They are about giving myself permission to be something other than strong. To be soft. To be excited about small things. To feel without it being a failure.
I do not know if you can get a childhood back. But I think you can give yourself the parts of it that matter most. The wonder. The freedom to feel. The ability to just exist without carrying the weight of everyone else's story about you.