Some people grow up fearing yelling.
I grew up fearing silence.
My mom had a difficult life. She came from a background filled with trauma, loss, and challenges that no child should have to endure. She became a mother while she was still very young herself. Looking back now, I can see that she was carrying wounds that were never fully healed. I believe she loved us. I also believe she was trying, in her own way, to break cycles that had been passed down to her.
But one of the ways she coped with hurt, anger, disappointment, or overwhelm was through silence.
When my mom was upset, she would stop talking to us.
Sometimes it lasted a day. Sometimes several days. Occasionally it stretched into a week or more.
The hardest part was that we often didn’t know what we had done.
My dad, my sister, and I would find ourselves walking on eggshells, trying to figure out what had happened. We would search our memories for clues. Did I say something wrong? Did I forget something? Was it my fault?
There was no conversation. No explanation. No repair.
Just silence.
As a child, that silence felt more painful than any punishment I can remember.
The message I received was not, “I am upset right now.”
The message I received was, “Connection has been withdrawn.”
For a child, connection is survival.
Children depend on their caregivers not only for food and shelter but for emotional safety. Research on ostracism and social exclusion shows that being ignored activates many of the same neural pathways associated with physical pain. In other words, being emotionally shut out doesn’t just hurt metaphorically. Our brains experience it as a real threat. (PositivePsychology.com)
Researchers have found that children who experience emotional neglect, rejection, or controlling parenting practices are at greater risk for anxiety, depression, low self-esteem, and difficulties in relationships later in life. (PMC)
What I didn’t understand as a child, but understand now, is that the silent treatment often creates a state of chronic uncertainty.
When you never know when connection will disappear, you become hypervigilant.
You learn to monitor moods.
You become skilled at reading rooms.
You try to anticipate needs before anyone asks.
You become a peacemaker.
A fixer.
A people-pleaser.
You learn that keeping the relationship feels more important than expressing your own needs.
For some of us, those coping strategies follow us into adulthood.
We apologize when we have done nothing wrong.
We become uncomfortable with conflict.
We over-explain.
We work hard to make everyone else comfortable.
We mistake emotional withdrawal for something we caused.
Even decades later, an unanswered text message, a curt email, or someone becoming distant can trigger feelings that are much older than the current situation.
The child inside us remembers.
The good news is that healing is possible.
One of the most important things I have learned is that someone else’s withdrawal does not automatically mean I have done something wrong.
That sounds simple, but for many of us it is revolutionary.
Healing often involves learning to tolerate uncertainty without rushing to fix it. It means noticing when old childhood fears are showing up in present-day relationships. It means learning that healthy relationships can include disagreement, disappointment, and conflict without abandoning connection.
Research suggests that supportive relationships can help buffer the effects of controlling or emotionally unavailable parenting. Safe teachers, mentors, friends, therapists, coaches, and partners can become corrective emotional experiences that help us develop new patterns of trust and connection. (PMC)
For me, healing has also involved boundaries.
Not walls.
Boundaries.
Learning that I am responsible for my feelings and behavior, and other people are responsible for theirs.
Learning that I can stay connected to myself even when someone else is disconnected from me.
Learning that I do not have to earn belonging.
Perhaps that is the lesson I wish my younger self could have known.
Someone else’s silence is not proof that you are unlovable.
Someone else’s inability to communicate is not evidence that you have failed.
And someone else’s wounds do not have to become your inheritance.
We can honor where we came from without repeating what hurt us.
If This Story Sounds Familiar
You are not alone.
If you recognize yourself in this story, consider these gentle practices:
• Notice when someone else’s withdrawal triggers anxiety or self-blame.
• Ask yourself, “What evidence do I have that this is actually about me?”
• Practice staying grounded before rushing to repair or fix.
• Build relationships with people who communicate directly and respectfully.
• Work with a therapist, support group, or trusted mentor if these patterns continue to affect your life.
• Offer yourself the compassion you wish you had received as a child.
Resources
Reflection
Growing up, how did you learn to respond when connection felt uncertain?
And what might change if you no longer assumed that someone else’s silence was your responsibility to fix?
Me ke aloha pumehana (with love and aloha), Melin 🌺
Hi Melinda,
I just want to let you know , thank you for joining Bloom. I left a detailed message for you. God bless.
Thoughtfully written. What stays with me is how far this reaches. You start seeing why people behave the way they do, decades after the silence that taught them. The over-apologisers, the room-readers, the people bracing for a reply that never comes. So often it traces back to something like this.