23/06/2025
People who grew up in homes where no one ever said, âI was wrong,â or âLetâs talk about it,â learned early that tension was something you had to carry, not something you could clear.
Maybe a parent would yell, then act like nothing happened. Maybe there was a slammed door, a cutting comment, and then silence. No apology. No explanation. Just dinner on the table like everything was fine.
You learned to sit with that ache in your chest, that lump in your throat, and pretend you were okay. You didnât ask questions. You didnât get answers. You watched the adults around you avoid responsibility, deny their part, or flip the blame on you.
You may have tried to speak up once, and maybe you were ignored, shut down, or told you were overreacting. So you stopped asking for clarity. But the need for it never left your body.
Now, as an adult, your nervous system still flinches when something feels unresolved. You crave closure, you try to talk things out, fix the energy, make sure no one is upset. You explain your tone, your intent, your every move.
You panic a little when someone goes quiet. You worry somethingâs wrong. You feel it in your chest, in your stomach, in your breath. And until things are settled, your mind wonât stop.
This started in a house where emotional messes were never cleaned up. Where love didnât include repair. Where apologies were rare or fake, and accountability felt impossible. You were left to figure it out alone, again and again.
So now, you send texts with way too many details, just to avoid being misunderstood. You read messages over and over, wondering if you said the wrong thing. You replay conversations in your head, searching for a shift in tone or a word that could have landed wrong.
You try to explain your side before anyone even asks, because you're already bracing for a reaction. You apologize in the middle of telling your truth. You say âjust to be clearâ and âhope that makes senseâ because clarity feels safer than silence.
You double text when you donât get a reply. You overthink pauses. You feel like youâre walking on glass, even with people whoâve never given you a reason to.
You worry youâre too much, too emotional, too sensitiveâbecause growing up, no one ever stopped to ask how you felt. They just kept moving, while you sat there holding the weight of what never got said.
You try to fix things fast. You rush to smooth over tension, even if youâre the one hurting. Youâve learned that being right doesnât feel as important as being okay. Peace feels urgent. You crave repair so deeply that you offer it even when itâs not yours to give.
This is what happens when you grow up in a home where conflict stayed in the air but was never named. Where people slammed doors and walked away. Where no one came back to explain, to hold space, to take ownership. Where your feelings piled up in silence.
Now, your body doesnât trust unresolved moments. Silence doesnât feel neutralâit feels like somethingâs coming. So you do everything you can to avoid that feeling.
Because back then, no one came to make things right. So now, you try to fix everything before it falls apart.
Empaths, Old Souls & Introverts
