I used to wonder why touch felt unfamiliar — why affection stirred a strange discomfort inside me, like something I both longed for and feared. I didn’t grow up in a home full of hugs or gentle words. Warmth, in many ways, felt foreign.

For decades, I thought it was just me — that something in me was broken or too needy. But recently, I stumbled across research that changed everything. It spoke of a time, not so long ago, when parents in Germany were taught not to hold their babies. Cuddling was discouraged. Smiling too much was considered spoiling. And grief washed over me like a tide I didn’t see coming.

You see, in 1934, Johanna Haarer published a book called The German Mother and Her First Child. It quickly became the parenting manual of Nazi Germany. In it, mothers were told to raise their children with emotional restraint — to avoid eye contact, to ignore crying, to keep children alone in separate rooms. The goal wasn’t love. It was obedience. These teachings were drilled into millions of women, shaping how they raised their babies. And those babies? 🤔 They became our grandparents and our parents.

Suddenly, my mother’s coldness made sense. My father’s silence wasn’t rejection. It was inherited pain — a wound passed down like an heirloom no one wanted.

And in that moment, something cracked open inside me: not just sorrow, but compassion.

I could see my mum as a little girl again, not a grown woman who withheld love, but a tiny child who never received it. And my heart broke, not just for me, but for her.

This isn’t about blame.

It’s about breaking the cycle.

Generational neglect often hides beneath the surface. It’s not always dramatic — sometimes, it’s the absence of something we never knew we needed. A hug that didn’t come. A tear that wasn’t wiped. A joy that wasn’t celebrated. And over time, that absence becomes a language — one we pass on without meaning to.

But what if we could learn a new language? 🤔

What if we could give ourselves — and others — the embrace we never received? 🤔

Here’s what I’m learning: healing doesn’t mean pretending the past didn’t hurt. It means choosing to love anyway. To become the soft place our own soul needed. To offer affection, even when it feels awkward. To hold space for grief, and in doing so, make room for joy.

The Echo of Silence

It began with something small — or so I thought.

A simple silence from my boss. Some unanswered questions. No reply. No check-in. Weeks of invisibility.

But that moment became a mirror.

And what stared back at me wasn’t just today’s ache — it was yesterday’s.

I saw myself again…

…as a child, waiting for Dad to notice.

…as a teen, watching Mum withdraw.

…as an adult, quietly grieving my brother’s distance and still today my sister’s silence.

Decades of being near people, yet not felt.

Present, but passed over.

Known by name, but never quite known.

And the ache? 🤔 It wasn't just about now.

It was about every time love felt like a closed door.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

When we name the wound, we disrupt the repetition.

When we see it for what it is, we no longer carry it as truth about our worth.

• I am not invisible.

• I am not too much.

• I am not hard to love.

• I was never meant to live in emotional famine.

• I was made to be embraced.

And now, I hold myself differently —

as someone who sees the pattern and says, “It stops with me.”

And even though learning that new language came a little late for my boys, I've learnt it's never too late to ask for forgiveness and make it right.

🌑 “When Retaliation Looks Like Silence”

I need to confess something.

In the ache of being ignored, I didn’t always respond with grace.

I withdrew. I stopped trusting and when we did speak, I questioned every kind word, judging it as flattery at best, or manipulation at worst.

You see, he had already told me I might be replaced by a virtual assistant to cut costs. Logically, it made sense but that one sentence undid me in ways I didn’t fully understand. It stirred every fear of being insufficient, disposable and easily replaced.

So I braced myself. For months, I lived as though a guillotine hung over my head and when the notice of termination finally came, seven months later, it felt like it confirmed my worst fear: You’re not good enough. You're replaceable.

But here's the thing I now see more clearly:

My withdrawal wasn’t cruelty.

It was grief wearing armour.

It was the little girl in me still learning how to respond when love feels uncertain.

It was self-protection in the absence of clarity and care and though I may have faltered, I am learning to hold my response with compassion, not condemnation, because healing doesn’t mean I get everything right.

It means I learn to look at my patterns with tenderness.

To name the wound.

To forgive the silence — and also the retaliation.

And to ask, "What does love look like now?"🤔

A Gentle Invitation:

Take a moment to sit with this journaling prompt:

1. When was the first time you remember feeling unseen or untouched emotionally? 🤔 What did your heart need in that moment that it didn’t receive? 🤔

2. What were your mother and father likely taught about love and strength? 🤔 Can you imagine the little child within each of them, also longing to be held? 🤔

3. What have you learned about love that your ancestors didn’t know? 🤔 How have you chosen to love differently? 🤔

4. What truth is God whispering to you now about the worthiness of your longing? 🤔 How does it feel to receive that truth today? 🤔

Healing Affirmation:

"I am worthy of affection, even when it was withheld.

I carry forward a gentler legacy.

I am held now by God, by grace, by the love I’ve chosen to give.

The silence stops with me.

I am safe to feel, to need, and to heal."

That’s what I'm doing. Rebuilding. Restoring. Renewing.

I'm not broken. I'm breaking through.

And my arms — my open, healing arms — may be the first embrace someone else never knew they needed.