Childhood!!

I survived a childhood where my inner child was dead—a sentence that sounds heavy because it carries the weight of unspoken battles, silenced laughter, and stolen moments of innocence. It wasn’t that I didn’t grow up; rather, I grew up too soon. I lived in a world where maturity wasn’t a choice but a survival mechanism, and where the small joys of childhood were luxuries I could not afford. I had to become someone older than my years, someone who knew responsibility before joy, and silence before self-expression.

From an early age, I learned to read the room before I learned to read books. I knew how to soothe the tension in the air, how to keep quiet when things got loud, and how to avoid being the reason someone else felt overwhelmed. The home that should have been a shelter was sometimes a battlefield of expectations, emotional storms, or neglect. There were no bedtime stories, only the stories I told myself to sleep. There were no tantrums, only inner negotiations of what I could afford to feel without upsetting the fragile balance of my environment. Because of this, I never really got to know my inner child. That version of me—curious, spontaneous, playful—was buried deep under layers of caution and maturity. I didn’t know how to play for the sake of playing. I didn’t have the luxury to be vulnerable, messy, or carelessly joyful. I envied other children who laughed loudly and cried freely, because I was busy managing emotions too big for someone so small. My maturity was not noble—it was necessary.

Now, as an adult, I find myself drawn to mature people. Those who are grounded, emotionally aware, and responsible attract me like magnets. They reflect the survival traits I cultivated early on. I admire people who have a sense of control, who listen deeply, who understand pain, and who communicate without hurting. But here lies the cruel irony—I admire them because I became like them far too early. And I hate that. I hate that maturity, for me, was not a destination reached after youthful exploration, but a shortcut forced by circumstance.

Sometimes I wonder who I might have been had I been allowed to just be a child. Would I have been more carefree? Would I smile more, cry less, worry less about being “too much” or “not enough”? I mourn the childhood I never had. I grieve the version of me who never got to feel safe being little, loud, and loved without conditions. There is sadness in becoming the adult you needed as a child, especially when that adult now resides in a body carrying wounds disguised as wisdom.

Yet here I am, surviving still. There is strength in surviving, even if survival cost me my innocence. There is depth in being mature, even if maturity arrived as a burden. And though my inner child feels distant, I now try to speak to them—gently, with patience. I try to give myself permission to be silly, to rest, to create without purpose. Healing is not linear, and some days I feel like I’m parenting the little me I lost. But that, too, is part of survival.

So yes, I survived a childhood where my inner child was dead. And now, piece by piece, I am learning to resurrect them—not to erase my past, but to reclaim the joy I was once denied.