Your Childhood Wasn’t ‘Normal’. It Was Emotionally Abusive
Riya Kumari | Jun 10, 2025, 23:55 IST
( Image credit : Pexels, Timeslife )
Let’s start with a little game: Did your parents ever say “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about” while you were already crying? Did “respect” always mean “don’t disagree with me”? Were you the family’s emotional barometer before you even had armpit hair? Congratulations. You weren’t raised—you were emotionally managed like a malfunctioning robot. But hey, welcome to the club. We meet every Tuesday and cry ironically.
That’s the sentence we whisper to ourselves when the memories start creeping in. When someone talks about their trauma and we feel that strange tug in our chest. When we try to explain our pain but it sounds unconvincing—even to us.
“My parents were strict.”
“They meant well.”
“That’s just how they were raised.”
“It wasn’t abuse—it was discipline.”
But here’s the truth most of us are just beginning to sit with: abuse doesn’t always come with bruises. Sometimes, it comes with silence. Sometimes, it comes in the shape of a withheld apology, a slammed door, a dismissive laugh when you try to explain your feelings. It comes in the form of “Don’t be so sensitive.” or “Why can’t you just be like your cousin?” And it settles in quietly, deeply, until one day you realize you don’t know how to feel safe in your own body.
Emotional abuse is invisible, but it’s not imaginary.
You grew up in a house. Not a war zone. You had food. You went to school. You even smiled in photos. So, when the word “abuse” enters the room, it feels... too big. Too dramatic. Too real. But emotional abuse isn’t about how things looked from the outside. It’s about how it felt inside you. It’s about the way you were taught to doubt yourself before anyone else ever had to.
It’s about the inner voice that criticizes you first thing in the morning and tucks you into bed with guilt at night. That voice was installed early. Carefully. Repeatedly. Were your tears punished? Was your joy too loud? Were your thoughts only welcome if they agreed with someone else’s? That’s not strict parenting. That’s control. And what they called “tough love” was often just love—missing the love part.
You don’t have to blame them to tell the truth.
Your parents might’ve been good people. They might’ve been tired. Hurting. Overwhelmed. And maybe no one ever taught them how to love in a way that didn’t control or correct. That’s their story. But here’s yours: You were a child. You didn’t need to be perfect. You needed to feel safe. Heard. Accepted.
Emotional abuse doesn’t have to come from monsters. It often comes from people who were never taught another way. But intention doesn’t erase impact. You’re allowed to name your wounds even if the person who gave them didn’t mean to hurt you. Healing isn’t about revenge. It’s about reality.
The legacy of emotional abuse is silence.
And not just the kind where no one talks about it. It’s the silence inside you. The one that shows up when someone asks what you need and you don’t know how to answer. The one that stops you from expressing disappointment, asking for clarity, or telling someone they hurt you—because you’ve spent your life walking on eggshells, flinching at conflict, terrified that being honest will cost you love.
It’s the silence that makes you apologize for having boundaries. The one that makes you believe your needs are a burden. And sometimes, it’s the silence that comes from not having words for something you feel but were never allowed to say. Until now.
So here’s what you do with all of this:
You stop gaslighting yourself. You stop calling it “normal” just because it was common. You stop confusing survival with love. And most importantly—you stop protecting the version of your childhood that kept you from healing.
No one gets a perfect childhood. But many people got one where they weren’t made to feel responsible for everyone else’s emotions. Where love wasn’t withdrawn the moment they stepped out of line. Where fear wasn’t the glue holding the house together. If that wasn’t your story, then rewriting it isn’t betrayal—it’s liberation
“My parents were strict.”
“They meant well.”
“That’s just how they were raised.”
“It wasn’t abuse—it was discipline.”
But here’s the truth most of us are just beginning to sit with: abuse doesn’t always come with bruises. Sometimes, it comes with silence. Sometimes, it comes in the shape of a withheld apology, a slammed door, a dismissive laugh when you try to explain your feelings. It comes in the form of “Don’t be so sensitive.” or “Why can’t you just be like your cousin?” And it settles in quietly, deeply, until one day you realize you don’t know how to feel safe in your own body.
Emotional abuse is invisible, but it’s not imaginary.
It’s about the inner voice that criticizes you first thing in the morning and tucks you into bed with guilt at night. That voice was installed early. Carefully. Repeatedly. Were your tears punished? Was your joy too loud? Were your thoughts only welcome if they agreed with someone else’s? That’s not strict parenting. That’s control. And what they called “tough love” was often just love—missing the love part.
You don’t have to blame them to tell the truth.
Emotional abuse doesn’t have to come from monsters. It often comes from people who were never taught another way. But intention doesn’t erase impact. You’re allowed to name your wounds even if the person who gave them didn’t mean to hurt you. Healing isn’t about revenge. It’s about reality.
The legacy of emotional abuse is silence.
It’s the silence that makes you apologize for having boundaries. The one that makes you believe your needs are a burden. And sometimes, it’s the silence that comes from not having words for something you feel but were never allowed to say. Until now.
So here’s what you do with all of this:
No one gets a perfect childhood. But many people got one where they weren’t made to feel responsible for everyone else’s emotions. Where love wasn’t withdrawn the moment they stepped out of line. Where fear wasn’t the glue holding the house together. If that wasn’t your story, then rewriting it isn’t betrayal—it’s liberation