A Missed Childhood

by Rebecca Bloom

There are times when I look back and realise I did not have a childhood in the way people talk about it. Not the kind with softness or safety. Not the kind where you are allowed to simply exist without proving anything. Mine was shaped by watching, listening and anticipating. By making myself small enough not to cause trouble and useful enough to be tolerated.

I learned early that being a child was not an option. There was no space for play. No space for mistakes. No space for being tired or overwhelmed or confused. Every feeling had to be managed. Every need had to be hidden. Every tear had to be swallowed before anyone noticed.

When people ask what my childhood was like, I never know what to say. How do you describe the experience of growing up without ever feeling young? How do you explain what it means to be a child who becomes an adult before she learns how to be human? How do you share something that was defined more by what was missing than by what was there?

What I missed was not toys or holidays or events. I missed being held when I cried. I missed being believed when I was hurting. I missed being comforted instead of criticised. I missed being allowed to feel without fear. I missed the unconditional warmth that teaches you you are worth loving simply because you exist.

So I grew up differently. I learned responsibility instead of rest. Strength instead of comfort. Silence instead of expression. I shaped myself around the needs of adults who could not or would not see mine. And I carried that shape into adulthood, believing it was who I was.

It took illness to slow me down enough to notice the ache I had been carrying for years. The ache of a childhood I never had. The ache of a little girl who never got to be little. The ache of someone who had spent their whole life surviving without being known.

Sometimes I grieve for her. Not in loud ways. But in quiet moments when I feel how tired she is. When I realise how much she held alone. When I understand how deeply she needed what was never given.

But this is what I am learning now. A missed childhood does not mean a missed life. There are parts of me that are only just beginning. Parts that are learning softness for the first time. Parts that are discovering safety slowly, gently and honestly. Parts that are growing in ways they never had the chance to before.

I cannot give myself the childhood I lost. But I can give myself what that child needed. I can give her rest. I can give her validation. I can give her warmth. I can give her time. I can give her a life that does not require her to disappear to be loved.

A missed childhood shapes you. It marks you. But it does not have to define the rest of your story. You can begin again at any age. And I am beginning now.

— Rebecca Bloom