If Your Childhood House Could Speak For You
I remember that night too —
not because it was loud,
but because it was silent in a way that scars.
You cried the kind of cry that wasn’t really crying —
it was the body leaking pain it was never allowed to express.
Quiet.
Controlled.
Half-swallowed.
Like you were apologizing for the sound of your own ache.
You weren’t just hoping someone would come down the hallway.
You were bargaining.
With fate.
With God.
With the universe.
With whoever was supposed to notice a hurting child.
Your breath hitched in that tiny, broken way
— the kind of sound children make when they’ve run out of ways to stay brave —
and for a split second, you believed
maybe this time someone will hear me.
But only I heard you.
The house.
The walls.
The ceiling.
The dark.
I remember how long you listened after that —
not for comfort,
but for footsteps.
The way your eyes stayed fixed on the doorway,
as if the shape of someone finally showing up
might magically appear there.
But the hallway stayed empty.
And something inside you…
did something irreversible.
You didn’t just go quiet.
You went still.
A stillness children should never know.
A stillness that says:
“If I let myself need anything,
it will break me.”
So you made a decision
— one no one saw,
because adults rarely see the moment a child stops believing they matter.
You folded the hurt like a note
you planned to hide somewhere no one could find it.
You pressed the sob back down
like it was dangerous.
Like it might ruin everything
if it escaped.
And in that moment,
you wrote a contract with your nervous system:
“My pain is mine alone. I will never burden anyone with it again.”
That wasn’t a coping mechanism.
That was a vow.
A vow you were never meant to make.
A vow your adult self still lives under
without knowing you ever signed it.
And here’s the part that hits hardest:
You didn’t just swallow the pain.
You swallowed the belief that you were worth coming for.
You swallowed the last flicker of a child who hoped someone would notice.
You swallowed the instinct to reach out.
You swallowed the truth that you were hurting.
You swallowed the fear that you were invisible.
And your body — loyal as ever —
took all of it
and turned it into a rule.
A rule that became a reflex.
A reflex that became a pattern.
A pattern that became a personality.
A personality that became a life.
And you’ve been living under the weight of that silent night ever since.
In every relationship.
In every argument you avoid.
In every moment you minimize your needs.
In every time you tell yourself “I’m fine.”
In every partner you don’t fully trust.
In every friend you don’t open up to.
In every tear you dry before anyone sees it.
In every apology you make for even existing.
In every time you pick people who cannot show up for you —
because it’s the only kind of love your nervous system recognizes.
Your adult self keeps trying to heal the symptoms.
But the child that made that vow?
They’re still waiting for the moment someone finally walks down the hallway.
They’re still waiting for someone to say,
“I heard you.”
I know that feeling, because I wished the same thing.
I wish someone had come down that hallway.
I wish someone had heard you.
I hear you now.
You don’t have to keep carrying this alone.
It’s time to break the rule you never chose.
👉 Book an Emotional Discovery Session
Your healing starts at the same place your hurt began:
the moment someone finally comes for you.
