I grieve the loss of my innocence — the confusion of experiencing unsolicited sexual advances at an age when I could not understand them, and the shame that followed, leaving me feeling responsible for something I did not cause. I also struggled with thoughts and feelings I did not understand, which deepened that sense of shame and isolation.
I grieve a childhood I was never fully allowed to enjoy. I became my grandmother’s confidant, carrying emotional burdens that belonged to adults. She shared her disappointments, her opinions of her children — including my father — and her frustrations about commitments that were not always honoured. In doing so, I became aware of my own perceived cost and inconvenience to her. I understood far too early what it meant to feel like a weight someone else had to carry — a burden I am still quick to assume today. She did not do this out of malice, but likely from her own unhealed trauma. Still, the impact remained. This exposure gave me an understanding of life far beyond my years, but it also took something from me.
I grieve the way I was parentified — not through raising younger siblings, but through co-running a household alongside my grandmother. By the age of fourteen, I found myself helping my sister recover from hospitalisation while also caring for my grandmother. I was not a nurse or an adult, yet I carried responsibilities that required me to become one.
I grieve my lost adolescence. I became pregnant at sixteen, and shortly after my son was born, my father passed away. Two weeks later, my beloved grandmother died as well. The weight of those losses was an earthquake in a life that had barely begun. I was never prepared for such tragedy, nor was I given the space to grieve. Life simply moved forward, and so did I, carrying losses I never learned how to mourn.
These experiences have shaped how I move through relationships today. I have become agile in escape; whenever I feel heavy for another person, I run. When faced with the discomfort of love or compromise, I retreat. I break my own heart before I expect another to reject me. Waves of unworthiness still surface, and impostor syndrome appears without warning. I try to acknowledge these feelings and understand where they come from rather than letting them quietly dictate my choices.
I recognise now that there are times when my emotions sit closer to the surface, particularly in the days before my menstrual cycle, when the grief I have long pushed down demands to be felt. On those days, I try to allow myself release — through writing, through tears, through honesty. I am learning to be gentle and loving with myself, to understand my body and its cycles, and to treat myself with kindness and care.
Perhaps this is what healing looks like for me now — not the absence of grief, but the willingness to sit with it. To give space to the child who learned too early to be strong. To allow imperfection without shame. And to believe, slowly but surely, that I am still worthy of love.
