When I look back on my childhood, I realize how much I’ve carried into adulthood without truly understanding it. I grew up with an alcoholic father, and my childhood was marked by uncertainty. I never knew how the day would unfold with him. Would it be a calm day? Or would his drinking and moods create chaos?

I’ve come to understand that I don’t remember much from my childhood—not in detail, at least. There are gaps, silent moments in my memory that I don’t know how to fill. But certain things are etched in my mind, as if they’re permanently imprinted. Like the fact that my dad drank. And that he was violent—not towards us children, but towards my mom. I don’t remember any violence directed at me or my siblings. But sometimes I wonder: Is that really how it was? Or have I blocked something out?

What I do remember clearly is that we often fled. We would go to my grandparents’ home, seeking refuge and safety. There, it felt like we could breathe, like we had a temporary escape from the chaos that followed my dad’s drinking. Yet, we always went back. I’m not sure why, but I guess we didn’t see another option.

One thing I often think about is how it was almost always me who went back home to my dad. I don’t know how it ended up that way. I’ve thought many times about why it was me. Was it because I was the strong one? The one who dared to talk back, who stood up to him? Or was it because my mom believed I could handle it better? Was it easier for her if I was there? Was he kinder to her when I was around? Maybe she wanted to protect me by giving me a role, something to focus on. Or maybe she thought I could protect her.

I learned early on to adapt to the situation. I developed a strong need for control—because if I could maintain control, maybe I could predict what would happen and protect myself. That feeling has stayed with me to this day. I find it hard to let go, to just let things “be.” I want to plan everything, to manage everything, to keep everything in order. Because in the back of my mind, there’s a fear: What will happen if I lose control? Will everything fall apart?

Another thing I’ve carried with me is the difficulty in setting boundaries, especially with people I care about. As a child, I learned to prioritize others’ needs, to try and maintain peace and balance, even if it came at my own expense. Today, I see the same pattern in how I act with my friends and in my close relationships. I say yes, even when I’m too tired. I push myself to be the one who solves problems and shows up for everyone—even when I should be focusing on myself.

I also see patterns in how easily I fall into dependencies. It’s as if I’m searching for something to fill a void, something I may not even be fully aware of. Shopping is one way I cope with stress and emotions. I buy things I don’t really need; it feels good in the moment, but afterward, I’m often left with regret.

In the past, I didn’t think much about why things were the way they were. I think I was just trying to navigate the situation, figuring out what was needed from me to keep things as calm as possible. I believe I became the outspoken, assertive one as a survival mechanism. Being the strong one might have given me a sense of control in a world that otherwise felt chaotic and unpredictable.

On many levels, I’ve always been someone who speaks her mind and stands up for herself. But it feels like that’s a part of me I’ve developed as a defense mechanism.

I used to think that my childhood hadn’t affected me much, that I was strong enough to get through it without any deep scars. But now, with more perspective and self-awareness, I realize that couldn’t be further from the truth. Growing up in a family where addiction was part of daily life has left its mark in more ways than I ever understood. It’s shaped how I see myself, how I relate to others, and how I interpret the world around me. I’ve noticed it’s created a pattern—a tendency to always feel responsible for others’ well-being, to be the one who has to stay strong and handle everything, even when I have nothing left to give.

This is part of my baggage, but I don’t want it to define me entirely. I want to learn how to set it down sometimes, to allow myself to be vulnerable, and to let go of that constant need to always be the strong one. I’m working on giving myself some compassion. I was a child who did the best I could in a very complicated situation. I’m trying to understand that I didn’t have all the answers then, and it’s okay that I still don’t have them all now.

Reflecting on my childhood and the patterns that have carried over into my adult life isn’t easy, but it feels important. It’s like piecing together a puzzle, slowly starting to understand why I am the way I am and why I make the choices I do. It’s not always a beautiful picture that emerges, but it’s my picture.

I know I don’t have to carry it all on my own, even though I’ve been doing so for so long that it feels like a part of me. I’m learning to let go, to say no, and to understand that it’s okay to be vulnerable. It’s okay not to always be the strong one. Prioritizing myself isn’t selfish—it’s necessary.