Unlearning Everything I Was Taught
I grew up in a world where obedience was praised, emotions were hidden, and silence was mistaken for strength. My father was a disciplined, proud, and emotionally distant military man. My mother, a gentlewoman who bore the weight of unspoken dreams, taught me that sacrifice was love and suffering was noble. I was the "obedient child," never questioning, always achieving, and smiling, even when it hurt.
I was taught that tears were weak and vulnerability was shameful. I was told to "toughen up," to be practical, and to pursue a degree that paid bills rather than one that fulfilled dreams. I learned that love had conditions, and that worth needed to be earned through perfection. I wore these lessons like armor.
But that armor eventually became a cage.
In my twenties, I had everything that looked like success—a stable job, a partner my parents approved of, and a life neatly packaged for social media. Yet inside, I was crumbling. I didn't recognize the person in the mirror. Every morning, I woke up with a weight in my chest, a quiet scream muffled by routine. I didn't know how to speak my truth because I had never been allowed to discover it.
Then came a moment I'll never forget. My younger sister, only nineteen, looked at me with tears in her eyes and whispered, "I don't want to live like this."
Something shattered.
That night, I sat in silence, my heart pounding as I stared at my reflection, and I asked myself a question that would change everything: Whose life am I living?
In the months that followed, I began to unlearn.
I unlearned that being strong meant never breaking down. I allowed myself to cry—loud, messy sobs that had been building up for years.
I unlearned that success was solely about a paycheck. I quit my job to pursue art—something I had loved since childhood but buried under a sense of duty.
I unlearned that love had to be earned. I walked away from a relationship that felt more like a performance than a partnership.
I unlearned silence. I started therapy, found my voice, and began writing—pages filled with truth, pain, and rediscovery.
I unlearned the idea that I had to be who others needed me to be. I began the journey of becoming who I needed to be.
It wasn't easy. My parents didn't understand. Friends drifted away, and fear visited often. But I also found new souls—kindred spirits who celebrated authenticity, who didn't flinch at my tears, and who loved the raw, unfiltered version of me.
Unlearning is not forgetting. It involves remembering who you were before the world told you who to be.
Today, I still stumble. But now, I rise without guilt. I live slower, speak softer, and feel deeper. I am healing.
No comments:
Post a Comment