어린 시절 어른이 되어야 했던 당신… 아직도 짊어지고 있는 것은 이것이다

If as a child you had to take on the responsibilities of an adult, that was emotional neglect—plain and simple. You were forced into a role that stole your childhood, and the consequences follow you still. You may tell yourself you’re just not good at resting, that you’re overly independent, but the truth is you’ve been stuck in survival mode. You learned to appear okay even when you were far from it, and now you don’t know how to stop. That’s why asking for help feels impossible. That’s why you overdo it in every relationship. That’s why you fall apart in private but keep smiling when others are watching. This isn’t your personality and it isn’t your fault—it’s trauma you’re still carrying. If you were made to be the grown-up as a kid, chances are no one ever explained how wrong that was. You might not even recognize it as abuse or neglect. But when a child is expected to shoulder the emotional or practical burdens of a parent, something essential is taken away: the right to be vulnerable, to be protected, to be loved without earning it. That reversal of roles—parentification—warps your identity. It forces you to perform and continually increase your competence while your own developmental needs go unmet.
When I was young, my parents divorced when I was seven. For years before that, our home was filled with fights; my mother would disappear sometimes and we never knew if she would return. One afternoon my father came to me in the hallway with a briefcase and a suitcase and said, “I’m really sorry. I have to go right now. I’m going to be seeing you as much as I can, but I can’t live here anymore.” The devastation of that moment is etched in me. I visited him at his tiny place—he lived in a garage—and I don’t know how long he had left; he only lived another seven or eight years and was unemployed much of the time. I think my mother leaving broke him. Then my mother remarried and moved us to another state; my father never asked for that upheaval, he didn’t want a divorce or to lose custody, and he was shattered. I felt shattered too, but I was far more attuned to how shattered he was, so I busied myself with protecting him from the worst of it.
My mother remarried quickly. My stepfather was a decent man in many ways, but from the start he wanted us to call him a “dad”-type name. I chose “father” because it felt formal and it honored their request. We were very young—about eight when we moved in and nine when they married—and while he did a lot to provide, he never truly accepted me as a child. I had a sister who was only three when all this happened, and when we left, we were taken from the father who loved us and put with a man who was, at times, ambivalent. We still called him father. When we visited our real dad, I was careful to use my stepdad’s first name so as not to upset him—my dad was emotionally volatile and deeply loving but had no sense of healthy boundaries. I was constantly worried about him, and I told my little sister never to say “father” around daddy, but she was too young to remember and would slip up. I would go so far as to try to cover it up—distracting, drowning out the words—because I feared how he would react. Looking back as an adult and now as a mother, it’s horrifying to imagine a little girl trying to manage the emotions of a grown man.
I didn’t dare tell him about the real dangers we faced in that new home. My mother drank a lot and my stepfather could become very angry. When he raged, his driving became reckless—at times it felt as if he didn’t care whether we lived or died. Twice I had to leap out of a moving car to save my little sister, dragging her out with me on a dirt road along a mountain ledge—once around age ten and again at about twelve. Remembering that now, as someone whose children are grown, I see how extreme and traumatic it was. Those events were never talked about in my family. Think about parentification: taking on the burden of keeping a child safe from abusive behavior, and then never mentioning it to the parents who caused the danger—that weight is far too heavy for a small child to carry. Over time, through slow unpacking and daily inner work, I’ve been surprised by how many of my behaviors and blind spots trace back to that time. What I once thought was “hard” now feels insane—what did that cost my spirit, having to save a toddler from a moving car and say nothing about it?
I suspect if my father had known about those dangers, he would have arranged for us to live with him, which probably would have been better, but he had no stable job and I don’t think the courts would have given him custody then. So I’ve had to recognize, in retrospect, that I was parentified. It explains many of the typical traits of an eldest daughter forced into adult roles: difficulty relaxing, trouble trusting others to handle responsibilities like earning money, relentless work from a young age—starting as early as nine—never being able to rest. Even now, although I could probably slow down, I choose not to because I finally love my work, and doing it for love also helps pay the bills. When you were neglected, you likely have stories of astonishing accomplishments from childhood—people praising you as so grown-up, so capable. You didn’t choose strength because you wanted it; you became strong because you had no other option. You learned early that no one was coming, and you suppressed your own needs. You became the peacemaker, the fixer, the invisible one, and you were praised for being mature—called an “old soul.” What that really meant was that you never got to be a child.
As an adult, you carry that role in your body, in your relationships, in your nervous system. You might be successful on the outside and still be unclear about what you genuinely need. You may draw people who lean on you emotionally while you secretly resent feeling so alone. You may be terrified of vulnerability—afraid to be seen as weak or needy—because, back then, needing anything came at a cost. Maybe a parent confided in you about marriage troubles, addiction, depression, finances, or sex—responsibilities that should have been kept between adults. Maybe you cared for siblings, ran the household, or became the unspoken family therapist, peacemaker, or translator—taking your parents to doctor’s appointments and explaining intimate or medical details. If you did those jobs well, they became your identity and likely still define you in many circles.
Here’s a truth that can shatter that whole illusion: functioning is not the same as being okay. Being needed is not the same as being loved. Being strong does not mean you have everything you need. The legacy of being too grown-up too soon is a performance of worth. You learned to read moods before words were spoken, to anticipate needs, to smooth tensions before they erupted, and to manage everything except your own feelings. You may pride yourself on self-reliance, but underneath is a part of you convinced that if you let go, everything will collapse. That part is still in survival mode because you didn’t just mature early—you skipped crucial developmental stages. You never learned healthy interdependence, trust, or boundaries. Consistent support that would have allowed your emotional muscles to develop safely was absent, and instead you were thrown into emotional adulthood with no guidance or protection.
The cost of that upbringing shows up as hypervigilance, anxiety, shame, perfectionism, and emotional numbing. You’re excellent in a crisis but unable to feel joy. You can tolerate chaos but intimacy terrifies you. You fix other people’s problems but you don’t know how to rest, receive, or ask for help without guilt. People praise you—“She’s so strong”—but they don’t see the toll of always having to be competent. They don’t see the child inside who was never seen or cared for, who never had others help carry life’s burdens. Childhood ended long ago, but the wound remains. After a lifetime of holding everything together, the idea of falling apart can feel like a threat to your very survival. Even healing can seem dangerous because it requires becoming someone you don’t yet know how to be—someone who allows sadness, vulnerability, and dependence. The fear is that if you allow yourself to be as sad as you secretly are, without constant striving and handling, you’ll be overwhelmed.
There are parts of you you barely know: a tenderness you worry would repel others, dreams you buried because they seemed foolish, emotions that surface only as panic, rage, or dissociation. These reactions aren’t weakness; they’re the backlog of unprocessed experiences your brain couldn’t handle in real time. Trauma jams things up, creating a constant, high-stakes internal emergency room. You might have grown up without protection or consistency, but you do have choices now—imperfect and not miraculous, yet real, moment by moment. You can step out of those old roles. You can notice when you’re overfunctioning and recognize when you’re managing other people’s reactions instead of your own. You can feel the social pressure to say yes and still choose to say no—not to become someone else, but to be honest and become yourself. You can rest before you collapse, refuse before resentment sets in, and let someone in even when every instinct says run. It’s uncomfortable at first, but it’s how you come back to yourself.
You don’t have to keep carrying everything. You don’t have to keep proving your worth or performing adulthood born of childhood survival. That role is not who you are and it’s not your job to parent the world. You are a capable adult now, and with that capability comes the responsibility to break the old trance—to allow the little engine that’s always revving to rest for a while. You can keep the engine, but let it pause. You’ve pulled the train up the mountain; you’ve held the line and done the impossible. Now you get to be real. I think I can. I think I can. I know I have to. I know I have to. Let that engine rest. You’ve earned it. If this resonated, there’s another video I think you’ll appreciate—check it out, and I’ll see you there. You might convince yourself it’s liberating to control your time even while your reactions run you, but in the moment it can feel relieving to carve out breathing room and keep people at bay so you can simply be.