This essay is a reflection on growing up in an environment where vulnerability felt unsafe, and what it means to reclaim it. Writing this was part of that reclamation.
I'm a woman, but grew up in a household where emotions weren't okay to express. Rephrase: Negative emotions, or anything tilting toward the dramatic, weren’t okay to express.
I remember vividly a VHS tape my family used to play for amusement. I was three, maybe four years old. It was Halloween, and I was dressed up as a sunflower: grass-green tights and dress, giant golden petals framing my face like a lion’s mane.
My mom used to sing “You Are My Sunshine” to me when I was little. I’m pretty sure that was the inspiration behind the costume.
On the tape, little sunflower-me is in tears, screaming, “I’m not a crybaby banting!” over and over. Banting is a Tagalog word for... I’m still not sure what. The only other voice on the tape is my uncle’s, taunting, "You’re a crybaby banting!” followed by fits of laughter.
If this were a scene from a work of fiction, I’d probably be laughing too. But it wasn’t fiction. It was my life. And even then, I knew something about it felt awful.
When I was eight, I took a spill in the back courtyard of our apartment complex. I was on my bike, doing laps on a rocky circular path I imagined was a racetrack. Even back then, I bit off more than I could chew and I ate it. Hard. I flew around a corner too fast and landed in a giant hydrangea bush, handlebars nearly piercing my chest.
A high-pitched shriek barreled out of me. I was in utter agony. My mom came running out of the house and yanked me from my leafy hell. (Shiba stuck in bush had to be inspired by this moment.)
But instead of comfort, I got screaming. She was furious. “How did you do this? Why are you stuck in the bush? Why are your knees scraped?” She was panicked, more upset that I was hurt than concerned about the hurt itself, as if my fall was intentional. Just to be clear: it wasn’t.
I could reference more moments like that, but I worry my point might get lost in the storytelling. Still, I’m laughing at my misfortune as I write these, because honestly, some of the scenes are straight out of an anime. Art imitates life, right?
Because of how my negative feelings were received, I never really learned how to express myself. Maybe there was the occasional “How are you, baby?” when my mom came home from work. But even then, the question only prompted a literal play-by-play of my day, not how I felt about anything.
I used to take dance class as a kid, which is probably the only reason my lanky self has any grace or coordination now. For a few years, I took tap with the same group of girls. We were friends; talkative, giggly, a real little team. I remember us having corndogs and cokes after rehearsals, the moms gossiping in the studio while we played outside full of processed meat and sugar.
After our stint in tap, we all decided to add ballet to our routine. For a while, it was fun. But eventually, I advanced and got placed in a class with competitive dancers, girls who’d been doing this since they could walk. I went from being comfortable and seen to feeling like a fish out of water.
Something shifted. My entire personality changed. I became reclusive, isolated. I couldn’t even answer a simple question when one of the girls tried to talk to me. I don’t know if my mom noticed. Maybe I kept it from her. Maybe she didn’t ask. Looking back, I think I needed help processing that change—someone to help me name what I was feeling, to tell me it was okay. But that never came.
In high school, I spent most of my lunch periods taking laps around the campus. It was a big school. Three full laps could kill enough time. If I hadn’t joined JV volleyball, I might never have had people to sit with. And even with that community, with the friendships that came along with it, I still avoided the courtyard. I was too nervous to “shoot the shit” with people I didn’t feel totally comfortable around.
I kept those feelings to myself. Nobody knew how scared, shy, or anxious I really was. On the outside, I looked like a beaming, pretty, confident girl. Sassy, witty, quick on my feet. Someone who never showed weakness. Because showing weakness? That was an invitation to be made fun of. And I’d learned early that was something I needed to avoid at all costs.
I’ve done a lot of work since then, but I’d be lying if I said that confused little girl wasn’t still somewhere inside me. The girl who didn’t feel supported. The girl who learned that showing emotion meant punishment or humiliation.
I still catch myself holding back tears during movies that hit too close to home. I still hear myself say, “Oh, that’s cool,” when my band decides to have another woman sing a part I know I’m more than capable of doing, even though deep down, I’m devastated to be excluded. Again. I still find myself processing my emotions alone, even though I have a partner now who would probably listen. Who wants to listen. Old habits die hard.
Even with all the work I feel I have left to do, I have to acknowledge how far I’ve come. Hi, my name is Vanessa, and I’m a recovering perfectionist.
I know how to name what I’m feeling now, even if not right away. The sensations in my body that used to go ignored —the tightness in my chest, the knot in my stomach— are now signals I try to understand. I feel safe sharing joy, gratitude, and hope. I feel just as comfortable sharing anger.
Sadness? I’m working on that one. I feel it deeply, but I’m not used to letting people see me in that state. Not yet, anyway.
Still, I’m hopeful. I believe there will come a day when I can show up in my full emotional self, tears and all, and not feel ashamed. And when that day comes, I know the little girl inside me will finally feel seen.
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