This Time In My Words

There are things I learned as a child that no child should have to learn.
You might relate—but our pain wears different faces.
The world isn’t always cruel on purpose. People don’t always mean to hurt you. But sometimes they do. And sometimes… they know exactly what they’re doing.

Before I Had Words, I Had Awareness

I learned how to read a room before I could read a book.
I could feel energy shift with one glance, one pause, one breath too long. I was always watching. Waiting for the change in tone. The tension. The silence that said more than any outburst ever could.

I made myself small—emotionally, physically, energetically—so I wouldn’t tip the balance.
But other times, the hunger to be seen took over. And I’d provoke the attention, even if it was negative. Because being seen in pain felt better than not being seen at all.

I didn’t call it trauma.
I didn’t have the language.
I still don’t have all the language.
But I knew enough to know this:
Love had rules.
Safety had conditions.
And I had to earn both by being quiet, helpful, agreeable… invisible to myself.
A shapeshifter. A mirror.

These things don’t just leave you. They wire themselves into your nervous system. And they stay.

What Trauma Taught Me Before I Could Name It

Even now, in rooms that are safe, with people who mean well—my body still braces.
The rejection is louder than the reassurance.
The “you’re okay, Liv” barely lands before my nervous system flinches into defence.

My trauma brain doesn’t wait for danger.
It reacts.

I shrink.
I freeze.
I fawn.
I fight.

I explain myself before anyone even asks.
I apologise when I’ve done nothing wrong.
I try to regulate other people’s emotions, even when I’m drowning in my own.

Because any sense of control—even if it’s borrowed—feels safer than being at the mercy of someone else’s unpredictability.

There’s a scared little girl inside me who still believes:

• If I don’t get it right, they’ll leave.
• If I speak up, it’ll all fall apart.
• If I have needs, I’ll be too much.

But there’s also a younger version of me still waiting.
For the apology.
For the softness.
For someone to turn around and say, “You were never too much. I’m sorry you thought you had to earn love.”

I’m learning now that voice can be my own.
It’s not perfect. It never will be. But I’m learning:
No one can reassure me more than me.

The Versions I Became To Be Chosen

I learned to perform.
To mould.
To anticipate.
To give people what they needed—even if it cost me pieces of myself.

I became hyper-independent and completely co-dependent all at once.
I needed people to stay.
But I never trusted they would.

So I built armour. And begged to be held through it.

And that toolkit?
It got me here.

I used to hate that I had to develop it.
But now—slowly, painfully—I’m learning to thank the girl who did.
She kept me alive.

Where I Am Now

Now, I’m learning new things.
Hard things.
Slow things.

Like this:
People can love me and still get frustrated. That doesn’t make them dangerous.
Time alone doesn’t mean I’ve been left.
Needing something doesn’t make me a burden.
Not being needed doesn’t make me useless.

I don’t have to perform to be loved.
I don’t have to shrink to be safe.
I don’t have to fight just to be heard.

It’s not easy.
My trauma brain still moves faster than my logic.
But healing isn’t about being perfect—it’s about pausing. It’s about noticing.
It’s about grieving the childhood I didn’t get, and giving that little girl the version of me she deserved.

She was never too much.
She was just too young.

And now?
I’m proud of her.
Of me.

For surviving.
For hoping.
For still being here.

If This Is You Too

If your story echoes any of this…
If you flinch at things others don’t notice…
If you say “I’m fine” when you’re anything but—
I see you.

You are not broken.
You are not weak.
You are not “too sensitive.”

You are a survivor of a life that asked too much of you, too early.

And now?
You deserve peace.
You deserve gentleness.
You deserve rest.

You made it.
You’re still here.

That matters.

You matter.

—Liv 🤍