Sometimes, the deepest wounds come not from strangers, but from the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally.
Amina knew this all too well.
Her family gatherings had become exercises in endurance rather than celebration. At her last birthday dinner, her sister Mara glanced at her plate and said, "You've really let yourself go. When are you going to take better care of yourself?"
Her father barely spoke to her except to correct or criticize. "Why can't you be more like your cousin? She's doing so well with her career and marriage."
The words cut deeper than she let on. In her family, love felt conditional—given only when she met expectations she never quite reached.
It wasn't just the words, but the silence. The absence of warmth. The way hugs were stiff and fleeting, like they feared being too close.
One rainy afternoon, Amina found herself alone in the kitchen, wiping down the counters. The house was empty, but the weight of loneliness filled every corner.
She pulled out her phone and scrolled to old family photos—smiling faces frozen in happier times. The memories made her heart ache.
She remembered the little girl she once was, hoping for approval, desperate to be seen.
That girl still lived inside her, fragile and needing love.
A message popped up from Mara.
"Mom and Dad are worried about you. You should call."
Amina's fingers hovered over the keyboard. Should she reach out? Would they listen or just judge?
Instead, she typed back, "I'm okay."
But the truth was, she wasn't.
That night, Amina sat on her bed with tears she hadn't allowed herself to shed in weeks. The pain wasn't just about feeling unloved—it was about grieving the love she never received.
She realized that for years she had been chasing approval from people who didn't know how to give it freely.
And that wasn't her fault.
She opened her journal and wrote:
"I don't have to earn love from those who withhold it. Their inability to love me doesn't make me unworthy."
Writing felt like a balm on her raw heart.
She thought of a quote she'd once read:
"You don't have to earn love. Especially not from those who should love you unconditionally."
She let the words settle in her mind.
The next morning, Amina made a decision.
She would no longer wait for validation from those who had never given it. She would begin to be the family she needed—the kind family that offered love without conditions.
She reached for her phone and sent a message to an old friend who had always shown kindness:
"Can we meet? I need someone to talk to."
It wasn't a replacement for family, but it was a start.
Over the weeks that followed, Amina worked on forgiving herself for the years she had believed she wasn't enough.
She realized that the wounds left by family could be healed—slowly, gently, by learning to love herself fiercely.
One evening, Mason called.
His voice was softer than usual. "I've been thinking... maybe I was too hard on you."
Amina listened quietly.
She knew healing wasn't about waiting for apologies, but about finding peace within.
She replied, "Thank you for saying that. I'm learning to be kinder to myself."
As she hung up, Amina felt something shift.
She wasn't just surviving anymore. She was beginning to thrive.
And for the first time, she believed that love—real love—started with herself.