Softly Unseen

Growing up, I wore the badge of oldest daughter with pride. Protecting my siblings wasn’t a duty , it was instinct.

I can still see my stepdad trying to force feed my youngest brother medicine, my fists clenched in rage, yelling at him to stop. As an adult, I understand my brother needed that medicine. But the way that man did anything ..heavy handed, controlling, and cruel was disgusting.

It didn’t matter if the threat came from our parents, friends, or the world outside. They were mine. Nobody loved them the way I did. Nobody would protect them the way I would. 

When my brothers were in high school, a fight broke out in front of our house. I was in platform sandals, purse in hand, and I jumped right in. Not that I could have done much damage but it stopped them. They weren’t going to hit a girl, and that was enough.

When my brother was lost in addiction, I went out one night to find him. I don’t remember how I tracked him down, but I do remember climbing through a second-floor window into a filthy apartment and dragging him out.

Nothing stood between me and their safety.

That role became my identity: dependable, loyal, capable. Strength was my identity , and I guarded it fiercely. If I was weak, who would they go to? Who would they have?

Everyone got so used to my strength that no one thought to check if I was okay. Growing up, I learned you had thirty seconds to cry, then you got up, figured out your next step, and kept going. I believed that if someone could depend on you, they would love you. That was my love language: dependability. I didn’t say “I love you” easily, but I could show up every time you needed me. That was safer than real vulnerability.

But strength became a mask. I wore it so long that I started to believe it myself. Inside, I was exhausted. I resented everyone who valued that “unbreakable” version of me, but I didn’t know how to need anyone. Needing someone felt like a burden. It still does.

My life taught me to brace for impact. I scanned every room, read every shift in energy. If I could sense it before it happened, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. If I pushed people away first, they couldn’t leave me.

But living that way left me empty.

Now I’m learning something new: I don’t have to be strong to be loved. It’s okay to need someone. It’s okay to take the armor off. It’s ok to embrace the soft person that I am.

My therapist mentioned developing a new role within my family. I don’t know what it will be or what it will look like but I know I don’t want it to be what it’s been.