When Childhood Isn’t a Place of Longing.…

Today I woke up feeling nostalgic. I put on a playlist, and the memories came flooding in. As Azul da Cor do Mar played—a song I love and that, coincidentally, my father once said was “my song”—I found myself transported back decades. I recalled many moments I’ve lived, comparing how my life was then to what it is now. I can honestly say it’s changed completely—like water into wine.

When I look back, I remember the many paths I’ve walked, the doors I entered and exited, the worlds I moved through, and the realities I lived. I once had a blog called Caviar e Ovo-Frito—Caviar and Fried Egg—because I always felt caught between very different realities: caviar represented the world I stepped into; fried egg, the one I came from and left behind to start anew.

I had little encouragement, few resources, and even fewer opportunities—but somehow, I found the courage to pave my way with shining stones and move forward.

To avoid using the ableist term “crazy,” I’ll just say it was a very curious situation.

Maybe you, reading this, don’t know me well. In fact, most people probably don’t. The ones who truly know my story are those who saw me walking around with bruised shins, barefoot, wearing an old campaign T-shirt, crying or looking downcast in childhood or adolescence—and most of those people are family. Others witnessed parts of the journey: the struggles, the trial and error, the countless efforts I threw myself into.

Everyone has a story to tell. Many people feel nostalgic about the past—and that’s okay. But when I look back at my childhood and teenage years, I see nothing romantic. Quite the opposite—I felt like the stem of a petal-less flower in the middle of a desert. That’s why I don’t feel nostalgia. I thank God I don’t live there anymore.

Not long ago, I told my parents there were times when I wished I could sleep and never wake up again. Besides dealing with bullying at school and church, I felt horrible at home. When I said that, my father was shocked—he said he had no idea I felt that way. It confirmed once again just how broken our relationship was, including with my mother.

Many parents don’t know—or don’t try to know—how their children are feeling, because they’re too busy with other things they see as more important. Sadly, we often only realize this when it’s too late—when lives are lost.

I’ve sometimes felt guilty for resenting my past. After all, many children grow up without a father, a mother, or a place to call home. But then I remind myself: no one can measure another’s pain. Pain is personal—and only the one who lives it knows how deeply it hurts.

bell hooks said we cannot normalize abuse, and that many of us cling to a version of love that makes abuse tolerable—or at least convinces us that what happened wasn’t “that bad.”

I agree with her. When we say there was love in relationships marked by childhood neglect, we risk reinforcing the normalization of physical and/or emotional violence. That’s why so many of us grow into adults who tolerate disrespect and abusive relationships—because it happened before, from people who were supposed to love us.

Today, as an adult woman and a mother, I recognize a dilemma: even though I didn’t feel loved, I believe that, in their own way, my parents tried to love me. Maybe I think that because I’ve forgiven them. But forgiveness doesn’t erase their lack of awareness during critical moments of my youth. I didn’t feel that love. Showing affection seemed like a taboo. In fact, I used to think my mother didn’t even like me. My perception only started to change about ten years ago—and I was already an adult.

Everyone copes with childhood trauma in their own way. Some people choose to distance themselves completely or maintain only minimal contact—and we must respect that. Others, like me, try again and again to reinterpret their past, believing it might lead to a better life. But these memories are like ghosts—they always return to haunt the present.

When I look at my now-elderly parents, I see that their childhoods were also sabotaged and neglected. Today, they explore the world like two kids in a park—trying things for the first time. I realize they may never have learned how to express love—because no one ever showed them. They didn’t have the opportunity back then to do things differently.

It became my task to break this cycle of pain. And now, raising my daughter, things are—and have been—different. I give my all to show her how deeply she is loved. My parents, my daughter, and I—an infinite bond of love.

In the end, I’ve come to believe it’s never too late to rescue the sun-child that lives within us. Love builds new narratives and many new perspectives. More than that—it teaches us to be more understanding and wiser.

Here’s to today—and to the beauty of life.

texto de Alessandra Martins