For Every Woman Who Was Taught to Shrink Herself to Be Loved
A personal reflection on how childhood wounds shaped my relationships, what Viola Davis helped me finally put into words, and the ongoing climb toward wholeness.
I grew up in a home where emotional expression was often chaotic or avoided altogether.
Connection was both deeply craved and difficult to sustain.
I craved — and often begged for — attention and validation.
Love and acceptance were scarce — a limited resource that seemed reserved only for my mom, who cycled through relationships that never lasted more than three or four years.
Self-worth was never taught to me. It was never mirrored back to me.
I was emotionally starved.
This shaped my future relationships in ways I couldn’t begin to understand at the time.
When any relationship came along — even if it was neglectful or unloving — my inner child latched onto any form of attention or attachment.
It felt safer than being alone.
And being alone was something my mom never taught me had value.
I recently finished Finding Me by Viola Davis. Her words cut into me like a hot knife.
I found myself wondering how she’d somehow had a front-row seat to my life.
“I was so unfinished. I asked God for a boyfriend, professional acting status, and the experience of traveling overseas. But I didn’t ask for wisdom. I didn’t ask for self-love. And it showed.”
It showed in the two partners I gave the majority of my early adult life to.
She went on to write:
“I was with a man who never loved me. My objective for the entire seven years was earning his love. I would internally pray, convincing myself that this would be the day he’d just look at me and tell me I am beautiful. I felt lucky to have him. That’s how damaged I was. He never remembered my birthday, my favorite foods, Christmas, Valentine’s Day. I was into the outward marks of achievement rather than the inner sense of home with a man — a sense of belonging to oneself.”
In her words, I found the language I had been reaching for my whole life.
After reading that passage, I reread it — again and again.
I hated that I was not alone in this.
I hated that other women had felt this same deep loneliness and longing.
And I felt enraged.
How did we get here?
How did the people who were supposed to teach us love fall so short?
And how do we unlearn what we were taught?
I have been with men who were really only with themselves — and with my lack of self-love.
Love, to me then, was sacrificing my joy for someone else’s — just like I had watched my mom do time and time again for companionship.
Love was meek and silent, softening my desires to make space for another to exist.
It was boundaryless.
It was suffocating.
It was lonely.
Today, through the gift of therapy — and through the excruciating metaphorical Mt. Everest climb, one step at a time — I’m learning to remove deep-set beliefs and replace them with new ones.
You have to die multiple times to be reborn.
You fall down in this icy, oxygenless environment — and then you get back up.
That environment tells you to stop.
To go back to the warm room where nothing is required of you, except a quiet denial of self.
And yes, that would be easier.
But instead…
I climb.
One step at a time.
I won’t lie and tell you I’ve reached the top — but I can tell you, I am nowhere near the bottom.
The process of unlearning, I believe, will never end.
Since I’ve been single, I haven’t felt lonely for even a day.
I’ve felt full of love.
Full of joy.
Full of me.
To me, real love is belonging — and first, it’s belonging to yourself.
It’s two people climbing their own mountains — who will, like me, slip and fall and trace their steps in the snow to find their footing again.
Today, I do not have time for men who do not accept my boundaries.
Today, I am whole.
And I come to partnership whole.
If you, too, are on this mountain — I want to reach back and offer my hand.
Come with me.
Unlearn.
Reclaim your light.
And remember:
The higher you climb, the harder it gets.
But don’t be afraid.
There is a slide on the other side.