A Black Girl Wrote This

Breaking the cycle of silence, performance, and pretending we didn’t need more.

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Self-Betrayal Was the Blueprint

And the generational neglect that taught us to call survival ‘strength,’ silence ‘respect,’ and pain ‘normal.’

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This post was inspired by a video I came across on Instagram by Steve Owens. The moment I saw it, I knew it was one of those clips. The kind you watch once and then need to sit in silence for twenty minutes just to process. He said something that shook me:

“Abuse is two words: abnormal use. That is to say anytime you are being used in a way that is not in true alignment with you, it’s abuse. And neglect is a form of abuse.”

From that moment, and everything that followed, the floodgates opened.

So many of us grew up in homes that didn’t look abusive—but left us walking around with invisible bruises, bleeding out in every relationship, job, and friendship we tried to survive. And we called it love. We called it empathy. We called it strength.

But what it really was? Self-betrayal.

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Abuse = Abnormal Use

We were taught to only recognize abuse if it was loud, violent, or left something broken and bleeding. If there were no bruises, no yelling, no chaos, we convinced ourselves it wasn’t abuse. But some of the deepest wounds don’t come from what happened to us—they come from what never did.

Oftentimes, we weren’t hit. We were ignored.
If we weren’t being screamed at, we were silenced.
We may not have been abandoned in the literal sense, but we were just left to figure life out while the adults tended to everything but us.

And somewhere along the way, being emotionally neglected became normal. Being over-relied on became praise. Hyper-independence became a badge. Being used for our maturity, our helpfulness, our quiet compliance—became the only time we felt seen.

But love that only shows up when you’re useful isn’t love.
Praise that only follows silence isn’t safety.

“Being the strong one wasn’t a compliment—it was abandonment dressed up in applause.”

And to the oldest daughters—you know this more than most.

You were the fixer. The babysitter. The therapist. The translator. The second mother before you were even a full child yourself.

You didn’t get to be soft.
You didn’t get to break down.
You didn’t get to need—not when everyone else’s needs came first.

You were taught to be the backbone of a family that never asked if you had one to spare.

And now? You flinch when someone offers to help.
You apologize for resting.
You confuse peace with productivity.
You only feel safe when you’re needed—but exhausted when you’re used.

You weren’t loved more because you were strong.
You were relied on because they knew you wouldn’t break.

But breaking would’ve been human.
And you deserved to be human, not a role.

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Let’s Call It What It Was: Emotional Abuse

This wasn’t just neglect. This was emotional abuse—we just weren’t taught to recognize it.

Because emotional abuse doesn’t scream.
It doesn’t slap.
It doesn’t always look cruel.
It looks like silence. Avoidance. Dismissal. Withdrawal. Conditional affection. Emotional weaponry masked as parenting.

Emotional abuse is when your feelings are ignored, your voice is punished, and your needs are seen as too much.
It’s being made to feel guilty for existing.
It’s having to shrink to keep the peace.
It’s being told your tears are manipulation, your boundaries are disrespect, and your emotions are inconvenient.

And the reason so many of us didn’t call it that is because… it was normalized.

• “You’re too sensitive.”
• “Stop crying before I give you something to cry about.”
• “That’s grown folks’ business.”
• “Get over it.”
• “I feed you, don’t I?”

We were raised to believe that survival was love.
That obedience was respect.
That silence was safety.

But none of that was love.
It was control.
And it taught us to betray ourselves just to stay “good.”

Emotional abuse is real—even if they didn’t mean to.
Emotional abuse is real—even if they “did their best.”
Emotional abuse is real—even if you turned out “fine.”

But being functional isn’t the same as being healed.
And being high-achieving isn’t the same as being okay.

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Let’s Name It:
The Forms of Abuse We Were Never Taught to See

We were raised to believe that abuse had to be physical to be real. If nobody hit you, it didn’t count. But abuse isn’t just about bruises. It’s about harm—and harm has many faces.

Here’s what no one broke down for us:

1. Physical Abuse

The most obvious form. Hitting. Slapping. Spanking that crosses the line into violence. Anything that uses physical pain to control, punish, or dominate.

And yes—“whoopings” are abuse. Especially when they’re fueled by rage, shame, or humiliation.

2. Sexual Abuse

Any sexual activity or contact without clear, informed, and enthusiastic consent—especially involving minors, power imbalance, or coercion.

Silence, confusion, and fear are not consent.

3. Emotional Abuse

The most invisible—but deeply damaging. Includes manipulation, gaslighting, humiliation, guilt-tripping, neglect, conditional love, threats, or being constantly criticized or dismissed.

This is what most of us experienced. It’s what we’re still unlearning.

4. Verbal Abuse

Name-calling. Yelling. Belittling. Cursing at you. Threats. Sarcasm meant to hurt. “Tough love” that was just cruelty in a louder tone.

Words leave bruises too. You just can’t see them.

5. Psychological Abuse

Subtle. Strategic. This includes isolation, mind games, fear tactics, guilt-based control, and making you question your reality. Often overlaps with emotional abuse but can also be more calculated.

If you felt crazy, paranoid, or like nothing you did was ever right—that wasn’t you. That was manipulation.

6. Financial Abuse

Controlling access to money, withholding necessities, or using money to manipulate, punish, or trap someone. For kids, this might look like being guilted for needing anything.

“You’re lucky I even feed you” is a red flag—not a flex.

7. Spiritual/Religious Abuse

Using God, scripture, or religious authority to control, shame, or silence. Weaponizing belief to dominate behavior, suppress identity, or justify harm.

“God said honor your parents” doesn’t mean tolerate abuse.
And while we’re here—God said a lot of things. Sit and read the actual Bible, cover to cover, and you’ll see how much of it? Doesn’t apply in 2025.
That verse wasn’t a pass for generational trauma. It wasn’t a loophole for silence. It wasn’t divine permission to endure harm in the name of obedience.

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If you only learned to look for physical abuse, you might’ve missed the way your spirit was slowly crushed, your boundaries erased, and your identity dimmed just to survive.

This isn’t about blame—it’s about language.
Because once you can name it, you can heal from it.
And you don’t have to justify your pain to anyone who never learned what it cost you to carry it.

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The Latchkey Generation: Independence or Neglect?

If you’re a millennial, or Gen X, or even a younger boomer, you already know. We were the latchkey kids. Had a key on a string. Made dinner with a microwave and some faith. Did our homework alone. Put ourselves to bed.

We were raised by the idea that if you could survive, then you should.

And once we showed we could handle being alone? That became the new normal. The bar was set. And the love got quieter. Less present. Less intentional.

“We weren’t praised for our emotional intelligence. We were just too scared to be seen as a burden.”

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The Performance of Okayness

We knew we couldn’t afford to fall apart.
So we didn’t.

We learned early that survival wasn’t optional. That being “the good kid” was safer than being the honest one. That holding it together—even when we were breaking inside—meant fewer problems, less punishment, more praise.

So we smiled. We succeeded. We got good grades. Kept the peace. Laughed at dinner and cried at night. We never cried too much. Never asked too often. Never needed too loudly. We carried our pain in invisible buckets and called ourselves strong.

And the world believed us.
Our teachers believed us. Our family believed us. Our friends believed us.
Hell, sometimes we believed us.

But that performance didn’t stay in childhood.
It followed us. Into our friendships. Our relationships. Our workspaces. Our parenting.

Now? We don’t ask for help. We don’t say we’re struggling. We show up with polished faces and trembling hearts. We bleed in private and perform in public.

And people stop checking in. Because you look “fine.”
You sound “strong.”
You function.

“You pretend to be okay long enough and people will start treating you like you don’t bleed.”

But the truth?
We’ve been bleeding this whole time—just silently enough not to scare anybody.

And if you’re a Black woman? A parent? A “strong one”?
You’ve mastered the art of bleeding without mess. Of smiling while sinking. Of showing up for everyone except the version of you who’s screaming on the inside.

Because somewhere along the line, we were taught that being needed was more important than being nurtured.

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Filling in the Gaps (And Losing Yourself Doing It)

We didn’t just grow up—we filled in what was missing.
We became the cushion. The bridge. The fixer. The one who always “had it handled.” We stepped in when others stepped out. And they let us.

We covered for our parents. We handled what they didn’t have the tools—or willingness—to address. We translated chaos into calm. Pain into peace. Silence into “It’s okay, I got it.”

And once we got good at it?
We carried that same survival into our friendships.
Our romantic relationships.
Our jobs.
Our parenting.
Our entire existence.

We didn’t just grow—we over-functioned.
We didn’t just help—we enabled.
We didn’t just love—we disappeared inside of it.

And what made it more dangerous?
It didn’t look like pain. It looked like reliability.
Like loyalty. Like competence. Like being “the one everyone can count on.”

“We thought we were helping. We were just hiding the holes so no one else saw the leaks.”

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It Was Never Empathy. It Was Survival.

Here’s the part that shattered me:

All that patience.
All that grace.
All that loving people through their mess, their silence, their inability to show up—
we thought that made us kind.
We thought it made us good.

But really, it was our inner child begging:
“If I love you right, will you finally choose me?”

We weren’t loving people—we were reenacting the same script we lived as kids.
Trying to earn what should’ve been freely given.
Trying to rewrite a story we had no control over the first time.

And we called it empathy.
But it was exhaustion.
It was emptiness.
It was self-betrayal with a halo on.

“Empathy shouldn’t require your own erasure.”
“It wasn’t empathy. It was survival guilt.”
“Stop calling it kindness when it’s killing you.”

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“I Did the Best I Could” – Did You?

Let’s talk about the guilt trip that’s been passed down like an heirloom.

In a lot of Black households, truth is treated like betrayal.
If you dare say “this hurt me,” suddenly you’re ungrateful.
Too emotional. Too sensitive.
The bad guy in your own healing story.

And they’ll hit you with it:

“I did the best I could.”

But did you?
Or did you just do what was done to you?
Did you pass on what you never questioned?
Did you choose what was familiar over what was right?

Because that’s not your best. That’s just unexamined survival.

You can still love them.
You can still understand their context.
But don’t lie to yourself about the damage.

1. You can name the wound without dishonoring the person who gave it to you.
2. Healing requires honesty, not hush.
3. Black kids weren’t raised to feel—we were raised to survive and be grateful for it.

Repeating the cycle is not ‘doing your best.’ It’s doing what’s familiar. And sometimes, familiar is just another name for trauma.

The Silent Wounds That Show Up Loud as Hell Now

Let’s name them.
Let’s see them.
Let’s stop pretending they’re just personality quirks.

These weren’t just bad habits.
They were instructions.
Inherited. Taught. Modeled. Enforced.
They were survival blueprints written in silence.

• “Stay in a Child’s Place” → Now you fear expressing needs or opinions.
• No Apologies, Ever → You tolerate people who can’t be accountable.
• Love = Acts of Service → You think you have to earn affection.
• Emotion = Weakness → You don’t know how to cry without shame.
• Parentification → You don’t let anyone care for you—you barely let yourself.
• Fear-Based Respect → You confuse obedience with love, silence with peace.
• Toxic Gratitude → You’re scared to ask for more, because “at least you had something.”

These wounds don’t whisper anymore.
They show up in the people you choose.
The jobs you overwork in.
The friends you keep giving passes to.
The version of you that only feels worthy when she’s exhausted.

But you’re rewriting the script now.
Every “no” you say.
Every tear you let fall.
Every time you ask for help.
That’s not weakness. That’s rebellion.

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So… Should You Confront Them?

This is where it gets murky.
Because healing doesn’t always come with closure.
And not every truth deserves to be handed to someone who will only shatter it in return.

So the question isn’t “Should I confront them?”
It’s: “Will they hear me?”
Not listen to defend, not respond to gaslight, not twist the truth to center their guilt.
But actually… hear you?

And if you know in your gut the answer is no?
Don’t walk back into the fire just because you miss the warmth.

Write the letter.
Burn it.
Bury it.
Read it to your therapist.
Or say it aloud to yourself.
But don’t keep handing your healing to people who refuse to hold it with care.

And if you do choose to confront them, go in for release, not results.

• Use “I” statements to anchor your truth.
• Be specific. Don’t aim to win, aim to unburden.
• Protect your peace before, during, and after. You don’t owe them your unraveling.

Some people will never understand your healing.
And that’s okay. It was never theirs to understand.
It was always yours to own.

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Set Boundaries Anyway.

Even if you never speak a word to them—you can still choose peace.

You do not need permission to protect your peace.
You do not need agreement to draw a line.
You do not need their understanding to choose your own wholeness.

You don’t have to fight.
You don’t have to argue.
You don’t even have to explain.

Because boundaries are not about them.
They’re about you finally becoming the version of yourself that doesn’t flinch every time someone crosses a line.

Try this:

• “I’m not available for unannounced visits.”
• “We’re not discussing my life, my parenting, or my partner today.”
• “I love you, but this conversation is no longer safe for me.”

They may not like it.
They may call it disrespect.
But it’s not disrespect—it’s reconstruction.

You are rebuilding yourself.
And not everyone gets access to the construction site.

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How Not to Repeat the Cycle

Let’s be honest: if you grew up on silence, fear, or self-erasure, parenting can feel like walking blindfolded.

Because no one taught us how to do this.
How to regulate. How to validate. How to not pass on what we swore we’d never do.

But guess what?
You’re not too late.
You’re not beyond repair.
You are not your parents.

You don’t break the cycle by being perfect.
You break it by being present.

Apologize.
Ask questions.
Slow down.
Regulate yourself.
Let them feel. Let you feel.

Tell your kids what you wish someone told you:

• “It’s okay to cry.”
• “You’re allowed to be mad.”
• “That was my fault. I’m sorry.”
• “You matter even when you’re not doing anything.”

And if you’ve already gotten it wrong?

Don’t spiral—pivot.
Don’t punish—repair.
Start small. Stay soft. Keep showing up.

You’re not here to pass the pain forward.
You’re here to interrupt it.

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💬 Affirmation of the Day:

“I am not too much for needing what I never received.”

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This post was part self-reflection, part letter, part guide.

I am grateful for the video that cracked something open.
That clip reminded me—and maybe reminded you too—that what we survived wasn’t “normal.” It was just common. And just because it was common… doesn’t mean it was okay.

So here’s your permission slip:
To speak.
To feel.
To protect your peace.
To be held—not just useful.
To be loved—not just loyal.
To be chosen—by you, if no one else.

It was never empathy.
It was self-betrayal.
But you don’t have to keep living like survival is your only language.

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💭 If this resonated with you… Share it. Sit with it. Send it to the version of you who needed to hear it years ago. Or to someone else still trying to name the pain they were taught to minimize.

We don’t heal in silence anymore.
We speak. We feel. We glow up—on purpose. 🤎

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💬 Join the Conversation:

• What would it look like to stop surviving and start nurturing yourself instead?
• What forms of emotional or invisible abuse did you experience growing up that you didn’t recognize until adulthood?
• In what ways did you perform “okayness” to survive? Do you still do it now?
• When did you realize you were betraying yourself in the name of empathy, loyalty, or “being the bigger person”?
• Have you ever tried to confront a parent or caregiver? What was that experience like for you?
• What boundaries have you put in place that helped you start to feel safe again?