Part 5: Silenced Sorrows, Unseen Scars
“But you, God, see the trouble of the afflicted; you consider their grief and take it in hand.”
—Psalm 10:14 (NIV)
Before I continue with the next part of my story, I want to pause and say this: even now, decades later, I am still learning from my past.
Writing this series has been more than storytelling. It has become a process of uncovering, understanding, and grieving parts of myself that I kept quiet for a very long time. As I look back on these early years, I can see how many seeds were planted—seeds of fear, silence, and self-protection—that would later shape how I moved through the world.
The next stretch of my life, which I’ll share in the coming posts, was even more difficult. I faced medical events that were far more frightening. Bullying intensified. School became a battleground where I struggled not only to learn, but to belong. Life didn’t slow down to let me recover. It demanded more of me.
In many ways, writing this post is preparing me more than anyone else. I can feel my younger self bracing for what was ahead. I didn’t know it then, but I was entering a season that would shape much of my inner world—how I coped, how I protected myself, and eventually, how I would begin to heal.
Looking back now, I can see how much of what I carried went unnoticed and unspoken. At the time, I didn’t have language for grief—only the weight of it, held quietly. I didn’t know then that what was never acknowledged or named was still seen and held.
By the time I was in early elementary school, I had already lived through more medical procedures than most children could imagine. I carried scars, both visible and invisible. I had been poked, prodded, and left in hospital rooms where I heard other children cry through the night—echoes of fear and pain that felt familiar, even when I didn’t fully understand them.
As I grew older, my awareness of being different deepened. My body functioned differently, but it was more than that. My days were filled with confusion, trying too hard and still falling short, feeling left out, misunderstood, and very alone. I worked constantly to keep up, to fit in, to appear capable, yet I rarely felt secure. Loneliness became a quiet companion, one I didn’t yet know how to name.
Bullying was a daily reality. Children mocked what they didn’t understand, and each cruel word reinforced a message I was beginning to believe: Something is wrong with me. I am not good enough.
At home, my parents were comforting during moments when comfort was expected—surgeries, illness, major medical events. I know they loved me deeply and did the best they could with what they knew. Still, outside of those obvious crises, emotional support became more complicated.
When I tried to express sadness or fear, my mother often responded with adult logic: comparisons, explanations, reminders that others had it worse, or that I was lucky. These responses were meant to help me cope, but instead they left me feeling selfish, as though my feelings were inappropriate.
I was six, seven, eight years old. I didn’t need perspective. I needed to cry. I needed to be held and to hear, “Yes, this is hard. And you’re allowed to feel that.” But that wasn’t the advice my parents had been given, or how they themselves had been raised. I may have received hugs, but they were often followed quickly by rationalizations. Over time, I learned that grief should be hidden, that emotions needed to be filtered, and that acceptance required silence.
When trying new experiences—learning to swim, ride a bike, or join group activities—I didn’t feel safe. I didn’t trust the adults who were supposed to help me. I didn’t believe they truly saw my fear. So I pulled inward and tried to figure things out on my own. I managed, but I never felt confident or fully supported.
I remember watching the Olympics and falling in love with gymnastics. My mom enrolled me in a class, and I did well enough. Still, the experience was colored by constant self-awareness. My differences felt exposed. It was difficult to enjoy the moment when so much energy went into trying to appear normal—and beyond that, trying to appear as though nothing bothered me at all. I believed that if I acted unaffected, if I stayed calm and uncomplaining, maybe no one would notice what I already knew to be true: that I wasn’t like them. I hoped I could pass quietly, unnoticed.
That was when I began to develop a kind of toughness—not something loud or obvious, but a quiet exterior, a calm shell meant to protect me. It shielded me not only from the opinions of others, but from my own growing judgments about myself.
This was the beginning of a pattern. On the outside, I performed well. On the inside, I felt less than. I became skilled at hiding what I felt because I had learned those feelings would not be understood—and certainly not welcomed.
For a long time, my grief existed quietly, without words, without acknowledgment. But looking back now, I can see that it was never unseen. Even when I couldn’t explain what hurt, even when no one asked the right questions, nothing was missed. What I carried was known, considered, and held—even then.
What happens to sorrow that is never named?
What happens to grief that is silenced before it is understood?
Psalm 10:14 reminds us that God sees what others overlook. He considers what is carried quietly. He does not dismiss the grief of the afflicted, even when that grief is hidden behind performance or toughness.
The devotional for this post explores what it means to bring silenced sorrow into the light—offering Scripture, prayer, and reflection for those who learned early to survive by staying quiet.