The Silent Epidemic of Emotional Abandonment
The Many Faces of Abandonment
The seed of abandonment has many faces.
Sometimes, it’s as loud as a slammed door.
Sometimes, it’s as quiet as no reply.
And sometimes, it happens inside —
in the moment we silence our own truth
just to stay connected.
It took me years to see that abandonment wasn’t always something that happened to me — sometimes, it was something I unknowingly did to myself.
Not all at once, but in small, subtle ways:
choosing the comfort of others, trying to manage their pain in order to preserve connection — even if it meant that my heart and my needs were ignored.
The First Time Grief Entered the Room
I was five years old when I was told that Ryan had died.
We were standing at a crosswalk.
It was shared with me matter-of-factly —
as if a boy being hit by a car was something simple.
As if death was something a child could understand
without breaking open.
I remember the shock.
My breath caught in my chest.
My body froze.
Sadness. Numbness.
And a fear that instantly rooted itself in my stomach.
There was no space to process it.
No invitation to name what I was feeling.
I had no words for the fear —
no language for the weight I suddenly held.
So it lived in my body.
It stayed there, quietly shaping me,
until three years ago,
when I finally processed it with EMDR.
That night — and so many after —
I lay in bed wondering:
Will I die too?
Will others leave me?
Where do we go when we’re gone?
What happens then?
That fear didn’t fade.
It just got organized.
I became a school patroller.
Awarded “top patroller,” in fact.
The kid who made sure everyone crossed the street safely.
It wasn’t just a job — it was a vow.
To never let anyone else die on my watch.
To make sense of the senseless.
To create safety where there had been none.
I see now that I didn’t just join a group.
I became a protector.
A sacred keeper of the crosswalk — literal and emotional —
making sure no one else crossed over without being seen.
The Weight of Feeling Too Much
Somewhere along the way, I began to believe that something was wrong with me.
Why did I feel so much?
Why did I see what others couldn’t — or wouldn’t — name?
Why did the pain of the world sit so heavy on my chest?
I felt alone in it.
Like I was walking through life with open wounds no one else could see.
And because I didn’t know what to do with my own suffering,
I began to pour myself into the pain of others.
I became the holder.
The one who could carry the unbearable.
The advocate. The champion.
The one who would speak for what was silent in others,
because no one had done that for me.
My inner child — the part of me that had never been met emotionally —
found kinship in the wounds of others.
That was where I felt purpose. That was where I felt safe.
But when I tried to express my own pain?
I was met with:
“Maybe you need medication.”
“Maybe you should go on antidepressants.”
What I heard underneath that was:
You’re too much.
You’re not okay.
There’s something broken in you.
The shame of that landed deep.
So I buried it.
And what happens when pain is buried, but never processed?
It loops. It turns inward.
It metastasizes into self-hate.
I hated myself for feeling so deeply.
For not being able to “just be okay.”
For being the only one in the room who seemed to notice the grief under the surface.
When the Wound Reopens
Even now, when silence enters the room —
the kind of silence that follows a rupture, a withdrawal, a disappearance —
my inner child shows up.
She doesn’t walk in.
She bursts through the door, heart pounding.
She’s scared.
She remembers.
She knows it’s not safe to be here.
The anxiety starts to build.
The reaching, the hyper-awareness, the inner narrative of “What did I do wrong?”
It begins again.
It doesn’t matter how strong I’ve become.
In those moments, I’m five again.
Or fifteen. Or twenty-eight.
Trying to make sense of the ache that silence leaves behind.
But now, I don’t push her away.
I don’t silence her like the world once did.
I listen.
I breathe.
I hold her hand.
Grief, the Mountain, and the Unseen Threshold
This weekend, I hiked a mountain to mark the 24th anniversary of my dad’s death.
As I climbed, I could feel the weight of every time I had been left —
not just in death, but in disconnection.
In those quiet moments when you realize
the conversation won’t continue,
the relationship can’t return,
the old way is gone.
Halfway up the mountain, something ruptured.
A scream came — not directed at anyone.
Not even fully understood.
It rose from the body, not the mind.
It was ancient. It was holy.
That scream was the sound of all the times I stayed quiet.
All the times I made myself small.
All the times I left myself in search of belonging.
It wasn’t a breakdown. It was a breaking open.
It was the moment where the armour met the flame.
And when I reached the summit, I didn’t feel broken.
I felt forged.
If This Lives in You Too
If any of this lives in your body too —
if the silence has ever felt louder than the pain —
here’s what I did. And maybe it will serve you:
I let the emotion rise. No censorship. No judgment.
I screamed into a pillow. Gave it a place to go.
I tapped. Breathed. Let my body guide what my mind couldn't.
I named the wound: this is an old story — the story of abandonment.
I offered myself clarity — not from another, but within.
And when the desire for closure came,
I gave myself permission to ask for it — not to get an answer,
but to honour the part of me that no longer wanted to be left in limbo.
Sometimes healing is not about tying it up neatly.
Sometimes it’s about meeting the ache
without expecting anyone else to fix it.
And sometimes, it’s about finally seeing the pattern
— and realizing that what once felt like fate
is actually a choice.
Journal prompt:
Where does the seed of abandonment still live in me?
How do I respond when I feel the threat of being left — emotionally or otherwise?
What might it look like to stop waiting for someone else to come back… and instead return to myself?
This is the invitation.
To stop blaming the world for the wound.
And to start being the one who rescues your own heart.
Returning to the Fire
This piece was written beside the fire —
not the kind that destroys,
but the one that purifies.
This is the forge.
This is the flame.
This is what it means to attend to your beautiful, beating heart.