“Healing my inner child” is a phrase that floats casually on the internet, wrapped in aesthetics and soft music. But for some of us, it is not an aesthetic. It is survival.
I learned to be strong before I even understood what strength meant. My father died of cancer when I was still young enough to believe that parents were permanent. My mother worked far away in Manila to provide for us. My grandmother cared for another family’s child in Saudi Arabia. My grandfather stayed behind, driving for a living while raising my older sister and me. I was known as “Lolo’s girl,” his favorite “apo” (grandchild). Yet even as the favorite, I often felt invisible.
My mornings were simple—fried egg, hotdog, garlic rice. I watched my sister prepare for school, her uniform crisp, her bag full of books. I envied her. She had somewhere to belong. When she and my grandfather left—one for school, one for work—the house would fall into a silence so loud it pressed against my chest. I filled it with dancing to music from an old phone, with Barbie dolls arranged in imaginary conversations, with television voices pretending to keep me company. It was a small world, but it was the only one I had.
At six years old, I carried questions too heavy for a child. Was I left behind because earning money mattered more than staying? Why did my grandmother raise another child while I longed for her touch? Where was my mother when I was burning with fever at night? I began shrinking my needs, convincing myself that my loneliness was less urgent than the adults’ responsibilities. I learned to be quiet. I learned not to complain. I learned to survive on my own.
When I entered Grade 1, something shifted. The first time I read the vowels aloud—A, E, I, O, U—my teacher praised me. The room felt brighter. For the first time, I felt seen. I discovered that excellence brought attention. At home, when they said, “Ang galing naman! Nakakapagbasa na pala si Chin” (Isn’t it great! Chin can already read), it felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. So I chased that feeling. I joined competitions. I collected medals. I memorized lines for recitations as if they were spells that could summon love. Each ribbon around my neck felt like proof that I mattered.
But even medals could not protect me from loss. In March 2013, my father passed away. I had so few memories of him that I feared forgetting his voice entirely. My grandmother finally came home, and for a while, her presence softened the emptiness. I felt like a child again—cared for, held, important. But life shifted once more. Supertyphoon “Yolanda” displaced relatives and our home grew crowded. Later, when my grandmother fell ill and had to leave to recover, my sister went with her. I stayed behind.
At 12, I carried responsibilities heavier than my body. I scrubbed floors, washed clothes larger than my arms, cooked meals, and stayed up late finishing schoolwork. I tried to remain the achiever everyone praised, even as exhaustion blurred my vision. When I finally gathered the courage to say I was tired, I was told, “You’re a girl. You should be the one doing those things.” My feelings dissolved in that sentence. Once again, I became invisible.
For years, I believed love had conditions. That I had to excel to earn it. That I had to endure quietly to deserve it. That being a girl meant carrying more than I could hold.
Looking back, I see the ethical questions hidden inside my childhood: Should financial survival silence a child’s emotional needs? Should gender dictate sacrifice? Is a child only worthy when she performs well?
Healing my inner child has meant confronting those questions with compassion. It has meant telling that six-year-old girl that she was never too needy, never too dramatic, never too much. It has meant unlearning the belief that medals measure worth.
I am 18 now. I still carry the echoes of that unseen child. But I no longer chase validation the way I used to. I am learning to sit with my younger self, to honor her loneliness, to give her the love she waited for.
And slowly, gently, the void she once carried is no longer empty. It is being filled—not by applause, not by ribbons, but by the quiet, radical act of loving herself.
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