This is a personal essay written by the author, sharing their individual journey and experiences. The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this piece belong solely to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MyndStories. This essay has not been professionally vetted or reviewed for clinical accuracy.

No one teaches you how to carry pain. It sneaks into your life, settles in your bones, and before you know it, it becomes part of who you are. You learn to live with it. You build walls around it. You convince yourself that time will take care of it.

But time doesn’t heal what you refuse to face.

The years that changed me

I was just a child when I learned what it felt like to be left behind.

My parents couldn’t afford my schooling, so out of love or maybe helplessness, they sent me to live with my paternal uncle, where I stayed there for eight years of my life, getting my primary education. On paper, it sounded like a responsible decision. But in reality, it was the beginning of a storm I didn’t see coming, leaving me grappling with feelings I didn’t have the words for back then.  

I hated myself during those years. I hated my parents even more.

While other kids had their families cheering for them at school events, patching up their scraped knees, or simply being present, I stood alone. My parents weren’t there when I won small victories, when I cried over losses, or even when I just wanted a comforting word.

Back then, there were no video calls or easy ways to stay connected. Once a month, if I were lucky, I’d hear their voices crackling over the phone, distant and detached. The longing for my family and the gnawing ache of being left behind became a constant in my life.

I didn’t know it then, but that absence planted the seeds of resentment in me.

Every missed moment, every tear I cried in silence, every unanswered question built walls inside me. And yet, I held onto a quiet hope—a desperate, childish hope—that one day, someone would ask how I felt. That someone would see me. For someone to notice the emptiness growing inside me.

But no one ever did.

Time marched on, as it always does. Eight years passed. Eight years of hiding my pain, of pretending everything was fine. Eight years of trying to convince myself that this was normal. But in the midst of it all, life had one more blow in store for me.

When guilt came calling

My eldest sister fell ill with meningitis. She was bedridden for months, slipping further away with every passing day. The hospital became a second home, its sterile walls a silent witness to our pain. I still remember Ryle’s tube sessions, the needles piercing her frail body, and the way life seemed to drain from her, little by little. It wasn’t just exhausting—it was soul-crushing.  

When the news of her death came, my first reaction wasn’t grief—it was relief. Not because I didn’t love her but because the exhaustion of watching her suffer had worn us all down. I felt guilty for that relief, but at the same time, it was the only thing I could feel.

I hated myself for feeling that way, but it was true. We were all so tired—tired of hoping, hurting, waiting for a miracle that never came. Her death felt like an escape. But as time passed, the relief turned into guilt. I replayed those moments over and over, questioning if I could have done something differently.  

With time, I made peace with her passing. The hospital staff, whom I had silently blamed for not saving her, faded into the background of my memories. 

After her, I became the eldest. Without realizing it, I stepped into a role I hadn’t asked for. Responsibilities piled up. I poured everything I had into my younger sibling, determined to give her the love and support I had missed out on. But as she grew older, things changed. She started hiding things from me, speaking in ways that felt foreign and distant.

It was like a wall had grown between us, and I didn’t know how to break it down.

Once again, I felt like I had failed.  

I blamed myself. I thought, Maybe I gave too little or gave it wrong.

I retreated into myself, convinced that I wasn’t enough—that no matter how much I gave, it would never be enough. The friendships I had nurtured over the years began to fade.
I didn’t have the energy to maintain them, and slowly, they slipped away.  

Life felt like a cycle of giving and losing, leaving me with nothing for myself.

The walls we build

I promised myself I’d never let anyone in again. It was safer that way.  

But then, love happened.  

They say love is blind, and I suppose that’s true. I didn’t see it coming, and when it did, I wasn’t prepared for it. He was kind, pure, and so much like me that I let my walls down, piece by piece.

I showed him the parts of me I had hidden from the world—the fears, the scars, the silences. And for a while, it felt like I was finally understood. But the same closeness that brought comfort also brought pain.

He saw my darkness too clearly. Because he understood my pain, he tried to empathize.

And in his attempts, he unknowingly hit the very wounds I was trying to heal. He tried to help. But every attempt felt like a spotlight on my wounds, and the more he tried, the more I recoiled. What I thought would be healing became a mirror reflecting all the things I had tried to bury. Every word of sympathy felt like a knife, cutting deeper into my insecurities.

The love I thought would heal me became another reason to retreat.

I built my walls again, this time thicker and higher. I told myself I was done. I told myself I wasn’t meant for love, that I was better off alone. But even behind those walls, I couldn’t escape the suffocation.

And yet, the pain didn’t go away.  

The weight of unforgiveness

For years, I carried the weight of unforgiveness, unresolved anger, and bitterness.

Not just for one person, but for many—for my parents who sent me away, for my sister’s illness, for my sibling’s distance, for my friends who faded, for the love that didn’t save me. I waited for apologies that never came, for people to understand the pain they had caused, to acknowledge the pieces of me they had broken. For closure that seemed like a distant dream. 

But no one did.

And in that waiting, I suffocated.  The more I waited, the heavier the weight became, like a noose tightening around my chest.

One day, I just got tired. It felt like someone had cut off my oxygen supply, leaving me gasping for air. I was tired of carrying it all. I used to think forgiveness was about the other person. That it meant letting them off the hook for the hurt they caused. But over time, I learned that forgiveness was always about me. About reclaiming my peace and freeing myself from the invisible cage I had built around my heart.

What it feels like to be free

Forgiveness didn’t come easily. It came in waves, sometimes small and gentle, sometimes overwhelming and painful. I started by acknowledging the hurt I had buried for years.
I let myself feel it, no matter how ugly it was. I wrote letters I never sent, pouring out everything I had held inside.  

And little by little, I let go.  

I forgave my parents for their absence, my sister for leaving, my sibling for the distance, my friends for fading away, and myself for carrying it all. I forgave the love that broke me and the silence that suffocated me. Not because anyone asked for it but because I needed it.

Forgiveness released the bitterness that had held me captive for so long.  

Today, I am free—not because life is perfect, but because I chose to free myself. I chose to stop carrying the weight of what I could not change.

Note: Pictures in this article are representative and not related to the author.