The Part of My Childhood That Still Hits the Hardest

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the relationship I had with my parents while I was growing up. And the part that’s always been the one that hits me the hardest is the one with my mom. Not because she did anything wrong, far from it. She was an amazing mom. The problem was me… or more accurately, the kid version of me who was living with childhood sexual abuse and had no idea how to make sense of any of it.

The Kid Logic That Built a Wall

Back then, I pulled away from her. Not because she deserved distance, but because my kid-brain decided she should have known what was happening. That was the story I clung to. If I was hurting that badly, surely the person who loved me most had some sort of parent superpower and should’ve felt it through the walls I put up.

But she didn’t have superpowers. And neither do any parents. But I carried that notion with me for many years.

What Adult-Me Can See Now

As an adult, I know that now. I know she had no way of knowing. I know I didn’t speak up. And I know the abuse was well hidden from her, from everyone. But my child self didn’t care about “logic”; he cared about survival. And the story he wrote made him feel safer.

And now adult-me has the perspective my child self never had:

• My mom loved me.
• She wasn’t a superhero; she was human, living in the limits every parent lives in.
• The responsibility was never hers.
• And the distance wasn’t a failure on my part; it was a trauma response.

The Strange Safety of Blame

But here’s the strange thing about trauma logic:

It’s often easier to blame the person who loves you than to accept that something horrific slipped past everyone.

At least blame gives the illusion of control. “She should have known” feels less terrifying than “no one saw me, and I wasn’t safe.”

But that kind of belief quietly builds a wall between you and the person you most want comfort from. And for a long time, that wall stood between me and my mom.

Grieving the Relationship That Never Got to Exist

And here I am, today, thinking about the relationship we never got to have. The conversations we never got to share. And the closeness I didn’t know how to allow.

And here’s the part that really hits hard. She passed before I could ever tell her what happened. Before I could sit down with her as an adult and say, “Mom… this is why I pulled away. Here is what I carried. And this is what you never knew.”

I know she would’ve protected me if she had known. That she would’ve stood beside me. And I know she would’ve cried with me and hugged me and said the things only moms can say in that soft, loving way.

Healing, Even Without the Conversation

So the grief I’m sitting with now isn’t just about trauma. It’s the grief of a relationship interrupted by something I never chose, never asked for, and didn’t have the language to explain.

But with healing comes knowledge and understanding. Healing lets me give her something now that I couldn’t give her then: the truth.

The truth that she loved me. That I know she would’ve protected me in a heartbeat if she had known.

The truth that she never failed me, not once.

And the truth that even now, all these years later, I’m still finding ways to grow closer to her in the only place I can: inside myself.

It’s not the conversation I wanted. But it’s a conversation that still heals. And that matters.

And honestly, that’s enough for today.

Photo by Xavier Mouton Photographie on Unsplash