I don’t remember a life with two parents under one roof. My parents divorced when I was just four. That reality has always been mine, though I didn’t fully grasp it then. I became a people pleaser—maybe I still am in some ways. It was the language of my little heart trying to whisper, “Love me,” or shout, “Look at me.” I wanted their attention, their approval, their love, and my tiny, confused brain thought pleasing them was the way.

My parents were so young when they had me. My mom, a Christian, became Muslim to marry my dad. She told me years later that anything to escape her own family was a breath of fresh air. That marriage was her ticket out. And yet, it was also the reason she left my dad.

I remember the day we moved out, though not with the weight it deserved. I helped pack movies—movies were my everything at that age. I didn’t understand that my world was splitting. By the time my dad came home to an empty house, I was already somewhere new with my mom. He told me years later how it felt to walk into silence, into nothingness. He carried that wound for so long.

A few years later, my parents put me in the middle, pulling me between them. “Who do you love more?” they’d ask, as though that was something a six-year-old could comprehend, let alone answer. I just said what they wanted to hear, terrified the other would find out.

Life moved on, though it didn’t smooth out.

My dad remarried, my mom remarried. My dad’s new wife… she didn’t love me. In truth, she hated me. I understand now that it wasn’t about me, but back then, it felt like it was. She had bipolar disorder, though I didn’t have the words for it at the time. I only knew her as the woman who could erupt without warning.

We’d be eating dinner, watching a movie—simple, everyday things—and suddenly, she’d lash out, spewing her anger toward my mom through me. “Your mom doesn’t take care of you.” “She’s a terrible person.” I was just a child, and I believed her. I carried guilt for believing those words, though they weren’t mine to carry.

When she exploded, I tried to fix it. I tried to fix her. I thought if I made her love me, the storms would stop. Of course, it never worked. And the people-pleasing grew deeper roots. At seven, she demanded my dad choose: “Her or me.” Imagine being a child who feels like love is a competition they’re destined to lose.

Even now, when I fall back into those patterns, I know where they come from. They’re echoes of that little girl who thought she had to please others to keep herself safe. But here’s the truth: I’m safe now. I don’t need to protect myself that way anymore. I’ve built a circle of people who love me for me.

On the days when I forget—when I slip back into the old survival mechanisms—I don’t shame myself. That little girl was doing her best. She was trying to survive. And I honour her for that. Healing isn’t linear; it’s a swirling, messy, beautiful journey.

I’m learning to love every twist and turn, every setback and triumph. Each one is a step closer to the wholeness I deserve.

by Anonymous