The Childhood I Had, The Adult I Carry.
Disclaimer:
In this blog, I share some reflections on the challenges I faced growing up in a dysfunctional and emotionally unpredictable family environment, just as you may have done. Those early experiences helped shape the adult I’ve become.
Parts of what I talk about may touch tender places or stir up old feelings. If that happens for you, please take your time. Move gently, pause whenever you need to, and only continue if it feels okay in your body. If anything feels too much, it’s perfectly alright to step back, breathe, or reach out to someone you trust for support. You don’t have to navigate any of this alone. And it’s OK if you decide you don’t want to read any further.
ACEs, Attachment, Attunement and Healing
When I look back at my own childhood, I can see how much of who I’ve become as an adult started forming, long before I had words for any of it. I’ve since learned that our early environment lays down the blueprint for how we understand relationships, manage stress, and imagine our own potential.
Studies have shown that when children experience strong, attuned caregiving, it helps wire the brain for trust, regulation, and resilience. Research by Schore (2001) also demonstrates that attuned caregiving supports healthy right‑brain development — the part of the brain involved in emotional regulation, stress recovery, and the capacity to feel safe with others.
When this system develops well, it supports whole‑brain functioning, meaning the prefrontal cortex (our ‘thinking brain’) stays online. This is what allows adults to make grounded, rational decisions, rather than being pulled into fight‑or‑flight responses that lead to reactive or poor decision‑making in later life.
But like many people, I didn’t grow up with consistent attunement.
With two working parents, younger siblings I was expected to care for, and a home where emotional needs were often overlooked, I learned very early in life that being capable, quiet, and endlessly responsible kept things running smoothly, or that was the hope anyway. I didn’t know it at the time, but my nervous system was adapting to survive.
When attunement is absent, inconsistent, or overwhelming, the developing nervous system does exactly that — it adapts. These adaptations aren’t conscious choices; they’re survival instincts. They’re the body’s way of protecting a child in an environment that feels unpredictable or unsafe. They don’t disappear just because we grow up — they follow us into adulthood; shaping how we trust, how we connect, and how safe we feel in our own bodies.
I’ve lived this. My patterns of over‑responsibility, emotional suppression, and ‘being the strong one’ and the sense of ‘not being enough’ didn’t stay in childhood — they became the way I moved through the world. They showed up in my work, in my relationships, and eventually in my body. During a recent period of intense caregiving, I found myself becoming activated, slipping straight back into those old childhood roles. My fibro flare was the wake‑up call that reminded me just how deeply the nervous system remembers.
Yet none of this is destiny. Even if our early attachment was anxious, avoidant, or disorganised, it doesn’t have to stay that way. The adult brain remains beautifully changeable. With the right support — therapy, community, safe and attuned relationships — our nervous system can begin to repair what was missed. Bit by bit, we learn new ways of relating, new ways of feeling safe, and new ways of being held in connection. Over time, the patterns that once protected us can soften, making space for a more secure attachment to grow. What was once dysregulated can become steadier, safer, and more grounded. Healing allows us to create a sense of belonging that feels real, earned, and deeply ours.
Understanding ACEs: The blueprint beneath your adult life
Many people first hear about ACEs (Adverse Childhood Experiences) through the Felitti study, which explored how early stress and emotional overwhelm shape our adult health and wellbeing. Much of what we know about early adversity comes from the ACE Study (Felitti et al., 1998), which showed how childhood experiences can leave long‑lasting imprints on the nervous system.
The study identified ten experiences that can deeply affect a child’s developing system:
Abuse
Physical abuse
Emotional (psychological) abuse
Sexual abuse
Neglect
Physical neglect
Emotional neglect
Household Dysfunction
Parental separation or divorce
Domestic violence (violence toward mother/father or caregiver)
Substance misuse in the household
Mental illness in the household
Incarceration of a household member
These experiences often happen in homes where children must grow up too fast, manage adult emotions, or learn to stay small and quiet to feel safe.
That was certainly true for me; I stepped into responsibility early, took on household tasks, learned to suppress resentment because there wasn’t space for my feelings and was fearful of being punished for a perceived slight. I became the child who coped, who managed, who didn’t make a fuss, I became small, shut down, and it destroyed any sense of self-worth — and that identity followed me into adulthood.
What’s important to remember is that ACEs are not a life sentence. They simply help us understand why we might struggle with anxiety, chronic pain, relationships, or self‑worth later in life — and they point us toward the kind of support, compassion, and connection that can help us heal.
ACEs are physiological imprints; patterns laid down in a developing nervous system that was trying to survive.
Adverse Childhood Experiences such as emotional neglect, inconsistent parenting, chronic criticism, instability, or growing up with a parent who was overwhelmed, unwell, or unavailable, shape the architecture of the nervous system, the attachment system, and the beliefs we carry into adulthood.
For me, these beliefs looked like:
It’s important to be the responsible one, be the peacemaker
My needs don’t matter — don’t show emotion, it causes anger
I shouldn’t burden anyone — keep quiet, don’t tell, pretend that all is well
I must stay strong, other people rely on me
These weren’t conscious thoughts; they were inherited from the emotional landscape of my childhood. They were the rules my nervous system wrote to keep me safe.
ACEs are not about blame. They are about understanding the map you were given — so you can learn how to redraw it.
The role of poor parenting: what children learn without words
Children learn who they are through the nervous system of the adults around them. When parenting is inconsistent, chaotic, emotionally absent, or critical, children often internalise negative lessons:
I’m too much
I’m not enough
It’s not all about you — your needs don’t matter
Love is unpredictable, angry, violent
I don’t understand what to do to earn safety
I’m responsible for other people’s emotions
I recognise many of these in myself — especially the sense of needing to earn safety and the deep pattern of taking responsibility for others’ emotions, often their anger. I became the child who soothed, who managed, who tried so hard to anticipate everyone else’s needs. And like many adults with high ACEs, I carried those patterns into every corner of my life.
How ACEs affected my adult relationships
Our early experiences become templates for connection. Long before we understand words, our nervous system is learning what love feels like, what safety feels like, and what we must do to stay connected to the people we depend on. When childhood is marked by inconsistency, criticism, emotional absence, or unpredictability, the nervous system adapts — not because the child is ‘difficult,’ but because they are trying to survive.
In my own childhood, love often felt conditional. I learned to stay quiet, stay helpful, and stay out of the way. I became the child who soothed, who managed, who didn’t make a fuss — because that was how connection worked in my home. My nervous system learned early that safety depended on being responsible, being good, and not having needs.
These early adaptations don’t disappear when we grow up. They follow us into adulthood, shaping how we trust, how we relate, and how safe we feel in our own bodies. For me, they showed up in ways that were often confusing and painful:
Fear of abandonment or rejection
I grew up scanning for shifts in mood, tone, or behaviour — always trying to anticipate what might go wrong. I learned to read the room before I even entered it; watching faces, listening for changes in breathing, noticing the slightest shift in energy. It was my way of staying safe. If I could sense anger, withdrawal, or tension early enough, I could adjust myself - be quieter, be helpful, be invisible, be ‘good’.
That hyper‑awareness followed me into adulthood. I found myself doing the same in relationships — monitoring people’s reactions, worrying that I had said the wrong thing, or fearing that someone might pull away if I wasn’t easy to be around. If someone went quiet, my nervous system filled in the blanks with danger. If someone seemed distant, I assumed I had caused it. I often felt responsible for keeping the connection intact, even when the other person wasn’t meeting me halfway.
There was a deep fear underneath it all: the fear that if I showed too much, needed too much, or took up too much space, I might be rejected or abandoned. So, I closed down; closed off my emotions, made myself small, and tried to be endlessly accommodating — not because I lacked strength, but because my nervous system had learned that connection depended on compliance.
It has taken time, healing, and reparenting to understand that this fear wasn’t a flaw in me. It was a survival strategy — one that made perfect sense in the environment I grew up in. And slowly, with safe people and steady support, I’ve learned that I don’t have to earn my place, monitor every shift, or hold everything together to be loved.
Difficulty in trusting others
When caregivers are unpredictable or emotionally unsafe, trusting partners or friends later in life can feel risky. Even when someone was kind, I often waited for the moment it might change. There was a deep lack of trust, mixed with shame and fear of judgement, because my nervous system had learned that closeness wasn’t always safe.
For many of us, trust becomes complicated — I know it did for me. I grew up learning that people could be warm one moment and withdrawn the next, so I became skilled at bracing for the emotional ‘switch’. As an adult, I found myself doing the same — scanning for signs that someone might pull away, become irritated, or suddenly change their tone. Kindness sometimes felt confusing, even suspicious, because I didn’t know how long it would last.
Poor attachment in childhood meant I struggled to believe that people meant what they said. If someone offered support, I questioned whether I deserved it. If someone showed affection, I worried I might lose it by being too much or not enough. Vulnerability felt dangerous, so I often held parts of myself back, sharing only what felt safe and keeping my deeper needs hidden.
I also found myself trusting too quickly at times — not because I felt secure, but because I was longing for connection. That combination of longing and fear is something many people with high ACEs recognise — wanting closeness but bracing against it at the same time.
These patterns weren’t about being difficult or guarded. They were survival strategies shaped by an attachment system that learned early on that people weren’t always consistent, attuned, or emotionally available. And like many adults with similar histories, I carried those patterns into friendships, relationships, and even professional spaces.
People‑pleasing or over‑functioning
Being helpful kept me safe as a child. I learned very early that if I stayed busy, stayed useful, and stayed quiet, things were calmer at home. I took on responsibilities long before I should have — managing household tasks, caring for younger siblings, and trying to keep the emotional temperature steady.
That pattern followed me into adulthood. I became the person who stepped in, who organised everything, who held everyone else’s feelings, who made sure nothing fell apart. I often said “yes” when I was overwhelmed, offered support when I was depleted, and stayed strong even when I desperately needed rest.
During times of caregiving, those childhood patterns resurfaced instantly: I slipped back into over‑functioning, pushing through, and ignoring my own needs until my body finally protested. My fibro flare was a clear message that I had gone far beyond my limits — not because I was weak, but because my nervous system was repeating what it learned decades ago.
Emotional shutdown or avoidance
Expressing feelings wasn’t welcome in my childhood. When emotions were met with criticism, dismissal, or punishment, my nervous system learned that staying quiet was safer than being honest. I adapted. I pushed feelings down, hid disappointment, swallowed resentment, and tried to stay ‘fine’, no matter what was happening around me.
As a child, this looked like keeping my face neutral, staying out of the way, and pretending things didn’t hurt. I learned to disconnect from my own emotional world because connecting to it didn’t feel safe. I learnt not to cry until I was on my own away from others, turned into a copious reader so that I could distract myself from feelings that I didn’t have the words for anyway. Outside of the house I created a mask — a happy, Pollyanna personality, arrived early, stayed late to help, but on the inside, I was a crumpled, hurt mess.
In adulthood, those patterns resurfaced in ways that were subtle but powerful. When conflict appeared, I shut down. When someone was upset with me, I withdrew. If I felt overwhelmed, I went quiet, disappeared into myself, or convinced myself that my feelings were ‘too much’. I often struggled to articulate what I needed because I had spent years teaching my body not to feel it.
Many people will recognise these symptoms:
Going numb during arguments
Freezing when asked how you feel
Avoiding difficult conversations
Minimising your own pain
Feeling guilty for having emotions at all
Believing that staying silent keeps the peace
For me, emotional shutdown became a reflex — a way of protecting myself from the possibility of rejection or anger. My nervous system genuinely believed that staying small, quiet, and contained was the safest option.
It has taken time, patience, therapy, and gentle reparenting to learn that my emotions are not dangerous. I’ve had to teach my body that it’s okay to feel, okay to speak, and okay to take up emotional space. Slowly, I’ve learned that expressing feelings doesn’t lead to punishment anymore — it leads to connection, clarity, and self‑respect.
Choosing partners who feel familiar rather than safe
The nervous system is drawn to what it recognises. Chaos, inconsistency, or emotional distance can feel strangely familiar when that’s what we grew up around. In my own life, I often found myself drawn to partners who mirrored the emotional patterns of my childhood — people who were inconsistent, unavailable, or who struggled with their own maturity. At the time, I didn’t see it as a pattern; it simply felt normal, because it matched the attachment template I had learned early on.
Calm, steady love sometimes felt uncomfortable or even suspicious, because my nervous system didn’t know how to trust it. I would question it, pull back, or wait for it to change. When someone was emotionally safe, I didn’t always recognise it as safety — I recognised it as unfamiliar. And when someone was emotionally distant or unpredictable, my nervous system knew exactly what to do: try harder, stay quiet, keep the peace, earn connection.
This meant I tolerated behaviours that weren’t good for me, simply because they echoed what I had known as a child. I chose partners who needed soothing, managing, or emotional caretaking, because that was the role I had learned to play. My attachment style — shaped by inconsistency and emotional absence — made it difficult to trust healthy connection, and easier to fall into relationships where I felt responsible for keeping everything together.
It has taken time, compassion, and a lot of reparenting to soften these patterns. Learning to reparent myself — to offer myself the steadiness, kindness, and attunement I didn’t receive growing up — has changed the way I relate. I’ve had to teach my nervous system that calm love isn’t a threat, that consistency isn’t a trap, and that I don’t have to earn my place in someone’s life. Reparenting has helped me recognise what safety feels like, and to choose relationships that honour who I am now, not who I had to be as a child to be accepted.
Tolerating mistreatment because it feels ‘normal’
When you grow up absorbing criticism or managing adult emotions, you don’t always recognise mistreatment as mistreatment. I tolerated behaviours in adulthood that I would never accept now, simply because they felt familiar.
Woven through all of this was the difficulty of expressing needs or boundaries. Having needs in childhood led to rejection, anger, dismissal, or punishment. As an adult, I struggled to ask for support or say “no”, even when it was essential for my emotional and physical health. My nervous system still believed that having needs was dangerous.
Over time, I’ve learned that these patterns are not character flaws. They are not signs of weakness. They are the nervous system repeating what I learned in childhood — strategies that once kept me safe, even though they no longer serve me now.
The hopeful part is that these patterns can change. With safety, attunement and support, the nervous system can learn new ways of relating — ways that feel calmer, more connected, and more secure.
I’ve experienced this myself; as my system has learned safety, my relationships have become steadier, kinder, and more reciprocal.
Healing doesn’t erase the past, but it does allow us to build something new.
How ACEs affect work and career
For a long time, I didn’t realise how much my childhood shaped the way I worked as an adult. Growing up, I learned that being responsible, capable, and endlessly helpful kept the household running and kept everyone calm. I became the child who didn’t complain, who managed things quietly, who stepped in when others couldn’t. At the time, it felt normal — even necessary. But those patterns didn’t disappear when I grew up.
In my adult life, that early over‑responsibility turned into perfectionism, burnout, and a constant drive to ‘get it right’. I pushed myself hard, took on too much, and often felt that I had to prove my worth through how much I could carry. I didn’t realise for years that my drive to be competent and reliable wasn’t just personality — it was a nervous system strategy. Staying useful had once kept me safe, so my body kept repeating the pattern.
Even in my professional roles, I found myself overworking, saying yes when I was exhausted, and feeling uneasy if I felt I wasn’t doing enough. Approval felt like safety. Rest felt risky. And when I stepped into caregiving again later in life, those childhood patterns came back instantly — the pressure to hold everything together, to be the strong one, to manage without needing anything myself. My fibro flare during that period was a powerful reminder that my body had been carrying these patterns for decades.
Understanding this didn’t make me weak — it made me human. And it helped me see that my nervous system wasn’t failing me; it was protecting me in the only way it knew how.
How ACEs affect your sense of potential
One of the quietest impacts of ACEs is how they shape your sense of possibility. When you grow up managing adult emotions — staying small to keep the peace, or learning that your needs don’t matter, it becomes very hard to imagine a future that feels expansive. I carried that into adulthood too; the sense that I should stay in the background, not take up too much space, not want for too much.
Healing changed that for me. As I began to understand my nervous system and soften those old patterns, I found myself reclaiming parts of my voice that had been quiet for years. I started writing more openly, sharing my lived experience, and allowing myself to explore work that felt meaningful rather than simply ‘safe’. I began rebalancing my workload, letting go of roles that drained me, and creating space for new income streams that aligned with who I was becoming rather than who I had been taught to be.
None of this happened overnight. But as my nervous system learned safety, the world genuinely became bigger. I could imagine possibilities that once felt out of reach. I could trust my intuition more. I could take gentle risks. I could allow myself to grow.
My journey isn’t unique — it’s what happens when the body finally feels safe enough to expand. When we stop surviving and start living, our potential begins to unfold in ways we couldn’t see before.
Why mind–body work is essential
My fibro flare after caregiving was one of the clearest signs that my body was still carrying old emotional patterns. It wasn’t just physical pain — it was my system speaking in the only language it had left. Mind–body work has helped me understand that my symptoms aren’t random; they are messages. They are my body saying, “I can’t keep holding all this alone. You’ve reached your limits of giving.”
For me, resentment played a huge role in this. Not the loud, explosive kind — but the quiet, buried resentment that builds up when you override your own needs for too long. Growing up, I learned to suppress resentment because expressing it wasn’t safe. So as an adult, it lived in my body instead; every time I pushed through exhaustion, every time I said “yes” when I meant “no”, every time I carried more than was mine, that old resentment tightened inside me. During caregiving, when I slipped back into those childhood patterns of over‑functioning, my body finally reached its threshold. The fibro flare was my wake‑up call.
Mind–body work has taught me that resentment is not a moral failing — it’s a boundary signal. It’s the nervous system saying, “Something feels unfair. Something needs to change.” When we ignore that signal, the body often steps in. Symptoms become the voice we never learned to use.
That flare forced me to review my boundaries with honesty and compassion. I had to ask myself:
Where am I giving beyond my capacity?
Where am I saying “yes” out of fear rather than choice?
Where am I carrying responsibilities that aren’t mine?
Where am I abandoning myself to keep the peace?
These questions weren’t easy, but they were necessary. They helped me reclaim my autonomy, my sense of self, and my right to rest. They helped me understand that boundaries are not walls — they are acts of self‑respect. They are how we protect the parts of us that were never protected in childhood.
Somatic tools you can use yourself
These practices have helped me reconnect with my body, soften resentment, and rebuild boundaries that feel safe and sustainable. They are simple, gentle ways of reminding your nervous system that you are no longer living in the conditions that shaped you — and that you are allowed to rest, feel, and take up space.
1. Orienting to safety
Let your eyes move slowly around the room and name three things that feel neutral or pleasant. A colour, a texture, a shape. This helps your body register: “I am here, and I am safe enough.”
For many of us, resentment builds when we’ve been in survival mode for too long. Orienting helps shift the system out of threat and into presence.
2. Hand‑to‑heart grounding
Place one hand on your chest and feel the warmth and pressure. Let your breath soften.
Say silently: “I’m allowed to have needs now.”
This is a powerful antidote to the old pattern of pushing through until a fibro flare forces you to stop. It’s a reminder that your needs matter before your body reaches breaking point.
3. Boundary breath
Inhale gently: “My needs matter.”
Exhale: “I release what is not mine.”
This breath helps your body recognise the difference between what you are responsible for and what you have been conditioned to carry. It’s especially supportive when resentment is signalling that a boundary has been crossed or ignored.
4. Somatic tracking
Notice sensations without trying to change them. Describe them neutrally: tight, warm, heavy, buzzing, fluttering.
This practice teaches your nervous system that sensations — even uncomfortable ones — are safe to feel. It helps prevent emotional shutdown and reduces the likelihood of symptoms escalating into a flare.
5. Inner‑child reassurance
Place a hand on your heart or belly and say gently:
“You didn’t deserve what happened. I’m here now.”
This is the essence of reparenting — offering yourself the steadiness, kindness, and attunement you didn’t receive growing up. It helps soften old patterns of over‑functioning and reminds your system that you no longer have to earn love through self‑abandonment.
Where people can go for help
Please note - these lists are not exhaustive, other services and organisations may also be available
United Kingdom
The Mix (for young adults)
International
If you ever feel unsafe, distressed, or unable to cope, please reach out to a crisis support service in your area. You don’t have to navigate this alone.
Podcasts that support ACEs healing
Listening to trauma‑informed voices can help you feel understood, validated, and less alone. Here are carefully chosen podcasts that align with mind–body healing, attachment repair, and nervous‑system education.
Trauma‑informed & ACE‑focused
The Trauma Therapist Podcast — grounded conversations with leading trauma experts.
Therapy Chat with Laura Reagan — attachment, trauma, and somatic healing.
Breaking the Cycle to Step Forward – Child sexual abuse/ conversations around awareness and education of trauma, stress, anxiety and the journey of recovery, from a lived experience and a professional perspective.
Attachment & relational healing
The Place We Find Ourselves — childhood stories and how they shape adult relationships.
The Adult Chair — inner child work, emotional regulation, and dysfunctional family patterns.
Mind–body recovery
SIRPA - provides a cutting-edge, evidence-based approach to chronic pain and other persistent (neuroplastic) symptoms, supporting people to regain their lives
MindBody Mastery Podcast — chronic pain, somatic recovery, and nervous‑system education.
The Cure for Chronic Pain (Nicole Sachs) — emotional expression and trauma‑related symptoms.
The Embodied Podcast — somatic practices and nervous‑system resilience.
The Solution Behind the Symptoms — Associated with symptomatic.me for the treatment of Neuroplastic symptoms
The Hidden Emotion – Raelan Agle
The Science Behind the Symptoms — Dr Howard Schubiner and Dr Becca Kennedy
General emotional healing
Unlocking Us (Brené Brown) — shame, vulnerability, boundaries, and childhood patterning.
Ten Percent Happier — trauma‑sensitive mindfulness and emotional regulation.
These podcasts offer gentle companionship, education, and hope — especially for those navigating the long shadow of childhood experiences.
A closing reflection
ACEs shape us — but they don’t have to define us. Poor parenting leaves imprints, but it doesn’t have to be our destiny. Just as I have, you can change your nervous system to learn safety, connection, and possibility at any age.
Healing is not about erasing the past. It’s about re‑parenting our present, gently, consistently, and with compassion.
Our potential is not lost. It’s waiting beneath the patterns we had to learn in order to survive.
If you have been affected by ACEs and have made it this far, I applaud your commitment to change. If you need assistance with repairing your nervous system, exploring reparenting, or just want to talk about your experiences with someone who has lived through a similar period, please reach out and book a FREE 30-minute Explorer Call.
I am also a Practitioner and member of SIRPA, and have contributed my knowledge and expertise to their Online Recovery Program. The program is aimed at helping you recover from chronic pain, empowering you to create results and make a positive difference in your world. For more information and to sign up, please click the button below:
As a therapist specialising in chronic conditions like CFS/M.E./ Long Covid and Fibromyalgia, I cannot recommend the Freeme app highly enough.
It offers a deeply compassionate, mind-body approach that prioritises emotional safety - something so often missing for those who’ve felt dismissed, confused, or stuck in cycles of fatigue, pain, and overwhelm.
I fully support the amazing work that they are doing and you can find out more about it on my site here: https://www.chronicpainreliefonlineclinic.com/freeme-app
If you are interested in trying the app out, please use the button below to sign up, or sign up through the link to my page above. As an affiliate to Freeme, these links will let them know that I sent you, and will help us both out!
Comments