I’ve carried a quiet ache in my heart for as long as I can remember. I could tell some stories of single moments of trauma. For example, I am told I was screaming as an infant left in the potato field while my family were too busy to hold me. However, my intention here is to tell you about another kind of trauma. It is about the kind of trauma that is caused by a subtle, persistent pain as my needs were not met in my early years. It’s not the pain associated with dramatic scars but the pain of never learning to feel safe.I want to tell my story of attachment pain, the protective walls I built to shield myself.
The Unseen Weight of Not Being Held
As a child, I craved being held—not just in arms, but in the warmth of emotional presence. I needed to feel that my existence was enough, that I was safe to simply be. But life, with its busyness and problems my parents were dealing with under communist regime, didn’t always offer that. My parents did their best to provide for me and my younger brother but they decided to delegate many parenting responsibilities to my grandmother.
I loved her and received a lot of attention from her but my young heart interpreted the fact that of disconnection from my parents as a message: You’re not enough to be held. My body absorbed this belief, and over time, it became a lens through which I saw the world—unsafe, unsteady, a place where I couldn’t let my guard down.
This belief manifested in my body as a constant tension, a tightness in my chest that made it hard to relax. I didn’t know it then, but this was my nervous system’s way of protecting me. To cope, I turned to my mind. I became a thinker, and a dreamer, lover of reading books and learning. Thinking felt safe; feeling did not. But this constant mental chatter only deepened the tension, and eventually, it showed up as physical illness—exhaustion, migraines, a body crying out for the rest I wouldn’t allow it to have.
If you’ve ever found yourself lost in overthinking, endlessly analysing to avoid the vulnerability of feeling, you might recognize this pattern. It’s not always born from dramatic trauma but from subtle, cumulative moments when our needs for connection went unmet. I invite you to pause and ask:
Where in my life do I avoid feeling? What might my body be holding that my mind is trying to avoid?
The Cry to Be Heard
Another layer of my pain came from a longing to be heard. As a child, I wanted to share my thoughts, my fears, my dreams, and know they mattered. But when those moments were missed—when my voice felt drowned out by the noise around, by my parents arguing, by the fears of living behind the Iron Curtain—I began to believe that my needs weren’t worth expressing. Instead, I turned outward, focusing on others’ needs to avoid the emptiness of not being heard. I became the helper, the one who made sure everyone else felt seen, hoping it would fill the void inside me.
This pattern of people-pleasing became a shield, a way to keep abandonment at bay. But it left me disconnected from my own voice. I remember moments when I’d sit silently in conversations, afraid to speak my opinion, convinced it would be ignored or dismissed. Often, I felt invisible in a group or in my own family.
If this resonates with you, consider:
When do I silence myself to keep the peace? What would it feel like to let my voice be heard, even if it’s imperfect?
We must know that the pain of not being heard can lead us to hide, but it can also guide us to discover our potential and speak from our authentic self.
The Struggle to Feel Supported
As I grew, I longed to explore the world with confidence, but I often needed more support. I know deep in my heart that my parents never let me down intentionally. I aslo appreciate those who offered me help and love on my life journey. I can say that I was truly blessed and guided by God to find a faith community and experience many breakthrough moments in my personal growth. I could find an amazing partner and have four beautiful children as a result.
However, I felt overwhelmed by life’s challenges on many occasions. Still, in my late sixties, I re-live sometimes my childhood and still feel like I need more encouragement, more reassurance than is available. I know that I developed parts of myself that felt unsupported when I was at school, when I travelled and when made some life-changing decisions. Today this attachment pain comes up when I start projects with enthusiasm but then freeze, feeling paralyzed by the fear of failing or falling short. Self-sabotage became my unconscious way of staying safe. The fear is that taking risks might expose my vulnerabilities.
I remember a time when I went to live in a foreign country with my four young children. I wanted to build a business that would serve the community despite not knowing the language and having only limited business skills. My every step forward felt like wading through quicksand. My inner critic would whisper: You’re not good enough. You’ll fail. This was my “unsupported” part, trying to protect me from rejection. It was telling me to give up and when I persevered, it was frustrating and exhausting. Now, I can understand how it was also a signal—a call to reconnect with the part of me that yearned for support.
Ask yourself:
Where in my life do I feel stuck?
Could it be a part of me trying to protect me from moving too fast into the unknown?
Healing begins when we recognize these parts not as enemies, or evil spirits, but as allies with good intentions.
The Fear of Being Seen
The need to be seen for who I truly am has always been a deep, aching desire. But somewhere along the way, I learned to hide. I feared that if people saw the real me— my doubts, my raw emotions—they wouldn’t accept me. So, I built a tough exterior, became a hard worker and I used confidence to mask my insecurities. Behind that façade, though, was a quiet self-criticism, a voice that told me I wasn’t enough.
I’d push people away, not because I didn’t want connection, but because I was terrified of being seen and rejected. But every time I isolated from others, I felt more lost.
Whenever you feel the urge to hide your true self, ask:
What am I afraid people will see? What would it mean to let myself be seen, even just a little?
The pain of not being seen can feel like being in darkness, but it’s also an invitation to step into your authenticity.
The Longing to Be Loved
At the core of my attachment pain was a belief that I wasn’t lovable as I am.
Growing up, I internalized the idea that love had to be earned through achievements, perfection, or meeting others’ expectations. I became a doer—an “inner taskmaster” drove me to accomplish, to perform, to prove my worth. But no matter how much I did, I was chasing love through action, not realizing that true love begins with accepting myself.
This belief made relationships challenging. I’d hold back, my children suffered emotionally because I convinced myself that I wasn’t enough. Perfectionism became my armour, but it also kept me trapped in a cycle of never feeling worthy.
If you recognize this in yourself, pause and reflect:
What if I am already enough, just as I am?
What would it feel like to let love in without needing to earn it?
The journey to self-love is not about doing more, but about being more fully yourself.
My journey with attachment pain has led me to learning how to embrace these protective parts of me. I’ve come to see that my intellectualising, my people-pleasing, my self-sabotage, and my fear of vulnerability weren’t flaws; they were survival strategies or defence mechanisms.
Healing has meant acknowledging every part of me—the thinker, the helper, the critic, the hider. I am in the process of learning to practice “good enough” instead of perfection, allowing myself to rest instead of always striving. Now, when I have retired, I’ve begun to release the tension and reconnect with my authentic self.
Prof. Franz Rupert once told me to become “gentle to myself “. He told people attending the the “Fear and Love” seminar, that the healing journey isn’t about erasing pain but about integrating it. It’s about making space for all parts of ourselves, even the ones we’ve tried to push away. It’s about recognizing that our defence mechanisms are not the enemy—they’re signals pointing us toward healing.
If my story stirs something in you, I invite you to notice the ways you protect yourself from vulnerability. Do you overthink to avoid feeling? Do you please others to feel worthy? Do you hold back to avoid being seen? These are your body’s way of keeping you safe.
Start small. Listen to your body. Feel the sensations that arise when you’re scared or hurt. Ask your protective parts what they need. They’ve been carrying your pain for so long—offer them compassion, not judgment. And know that healing is not about becoming perfect but about mind-body unity, becoming whole.
