Actually, I'm not fine… blog

Part 3: Control, Survival, and the Cost of Independence

Growing up in a home where trust was scarce and love was conditional, I learned early that control was the only thing I could count on. If I wanted to feel safe, if I wanted my emotions to matter, if I wanted to survive, I had to take matters into my own hands. Independence wasn’t a choice; it was a necessity.

Even as a child, I found ways to claim agency over my life. I moved my own furniture every few months because it was the only control I had over my environment. I decorated my room using whatever I could find, creating spaces that reflected me, not my mother’s rigid rules or opinions. I became resourceful, crafty, and determined to carve out small areas of autonomy wherever I could.

Money, too, became a tool of survival. My allowance was limited, and hand-me-downs were the norm. But I learned early that if I wanted more, I had to save, plan, and be clever. At 12, I began hiding money in secret spots in my room, building a small safety net that no one could touch. I was determined that one day, I wouldn’t have to rely on anyone who had the power to control me. I wanted freedom, not just survival.

That independence became both my shield and my burden. It taught me discipline, responsibility, and the ability to make things happen on my own. But it also meant I struggled to rely on others, to trust, to let someone in. I carried the weight of control everywhere I went from school, friendships, romantic relationships. Independence became synonymous with safety, but it also created walls.

The cost was subtle but profound. I learned to survive alone, but I didn’t always know how to live. My control extended into relationships in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. I took charge because I feared vulnerability. I avoided intimacy because it felt risky. I prioritized self-preservation over connection. And I didn’t always realize how much that shaped my sense of self, my ability to love, and my approach to partnerships.

Looking back, I can see how these survival skills were necessary. They protected me from harm and gave me a foundation I could rely on. But they also created patterns that would take decades to unpack: patterns of control, self-reliance, and careful calculation that interfered with authentic emotional connection. I had to learn, slowly, that independence didn’t have to mean isolation. That strength didn’t require shutting people out. That survival didn’t mean I couldn’t also live fully, openly, and vulnerably.

Closing Reflection:

How often do we mistake survival for living?

How much of what we carry as adults is the result of learning to protect ourselves as children, and how much of that protection keeps us from experiencing life fully?