Families are supposed to be the first place we learn love, safety, and identity. But in some homes — homes like mine — you grow up learning to survive the very people who were supposed to protect you.
The Golden Child, the Wounded Child, and the Forgotten One
I grew up watching my siblings fall into roles that were carved out long before any of us understood what they meant.
My brother was coddled into adulthood. He’s in his fifties now, still living with our mother — or maybe it’s more accurate to say she lives with him — and their dynamic has never matured past childhood. He never had to stretch, to struggle, or to stand on his own. He was protected from the consequences of life, and instead of becoming independent, he remained emotionally suspended, comfortable in the familiar.
Then there was my cousin – raised into my family at a young age, the one everyone tiptoed around because of the tragedy surrounding her birth mother’s death. She was treated as if she was fragile, special, someone whose feelings needed to be managed at all costs. Even as a child, I could see how that kind of treatment was shaping something darker — a sense of entitlement, narcissism that blossomed unchecked. Today, she is the adult version of that carefully watered child.
I don’t maintain relationships with either of them now. Not out of hate, but out of clarity.
The Sister I Never Truly Knew
I have another sister — my half sister — and I’ve loved her from a distance for as long as I’ve known she existed. As a child, the idea of her made me excited; I imagined what having a sister could be like. But our connection never materialized. She bonded easily with my siblings, but not with me.
There’s no animosity there, no anger. Just distance. Just the hollow space between people who share blood but not belonging.
She carries her own wounds about our father — wounds she can’t seem to let go of — believing he was present for us and absent for her. What she doesn’t know is that his presence wasn’t the gift she thinks it was.
A Father Who Resented My Growth
My father was physically there in my life, but emotionally? Not at all. His insecurities shaped everything — how he spoke to me, how he treated me, how he reacted when I began to stand on my own.
He competed with me.
Belittled me.
Took advantage of me.
I remember buying a new car — something I was proud of. Instead of celebrating me, he used it. Literally. He took my car for his trips, kept it for days, left me walking to work. No respect, no regard.
And when he saw me progressing, building myself up without him? That’s when the verbal abuse escalated. The emotional abuse. Even physical — pinching, slapping — the acts that linger in your memory long after the sting fades.
Eventually, I moved out … and then left the state. Not because I wanted distance from a home, but because I needed distance from a man who saw my growth as a threat.
What We Carry Out of Dysfunctional Homes
People sometimes ask why I’m low contact to no-contact with my parents, or why I choose not to be involved with certain family members. They don’t understand that some homes don’t raise children — they damage them.
Dysfunctional family systems shape us in ways we don’t see until we’re older:
Some children become emotionally stunted. Some become entitled or manipulative. Some become chronically wounded. Some grow into adults who snap under pressure. And some, like me, learn to walk away.
Not every child from a broken home becomes dangerous or destructive. But many carry invisible bruises, private battles, and long shadows cast by people who were supposed to love them.
Walking away wasn’t an act of anger — it was an act of sanity.
My Life Now
I live with boundaries now — real ones. Ones that protect my peace, my sanity, and the life I’ve fought to build. I don’t carry hatred. I carry truth. And truth has freed me in ways that staying in the dysfunction never could.
I love my family from afar — even the ones I never truly knew — but I no longer sacrifice myself to belong in places that were never safe for me.
My Voice Unchained 