Hello… I have feelings that are really hard to explain.

Let’s talk about this:

I’m a middle child, and I’ve never really received love from my parents.
When I was born, my mom gave me to my grandmother to raise, and my dad went to prison.
As I grew up, I found out that my mom had moved on — she had a new husband, new kids, and she raised them well.
And that hurt. It made me jealous.

Whenever I see someone receiving love from their parents, I feel jealous.
I just want that same kind of love — the love of a father and mother — but I never got it.
Sometimes I cry just thinking about it.
I hate myself for feeling this way, but deep down I just wish I could be loved by my parents… the way other people are.

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Here’s how I see it : 

hey, friend — come sit beside me for a minute. you don’t need to be brave here. you don’t need to explain why you still want the kind of love you didn’t get. you can just breathe, and let somebody who genuinely cares talk to you like we’re sharing a couch on a quiet evening, the window slightly open, the world slow enough for truth.

this is a long letter — story-voice, gentle and practical — for the middle child who grew up outside the circle of arms. for the kid who watched love being given to other children with the same last name and thought, “so it exists — just not for me.” for the adult who still flinches when a friend posts a photo captioned “family dinner,” and hates that flinch, and hates hating it.

you are not broken for wanting what you did not get. you are not dramatic for grieving a childhood you didn’t receive. you are not “behind” because you still cry sometimes. you are a person whose nervous system learned absence before it learned being held. that has consequences — and it does not have to be your destiny.

let me tell you a story. then we’ll build you a toolkit. then we’ll give your heart a room of its own.

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🌙 the child on the doorstep

once there was a little kid who stood on the doorstep of her own life, suitcase in hand, watching the door close from the inside. she could hear laughter in there — new babies, new routines, the rhythm of a family that had moved on without her. she wasn’t unloved by the universe; she was unparented by the pair she’d been born to. a grandmother did the daily tenderness (bless that), but the blueprint that tells a nervous system “you are safe, wanted, chosen” was smudged.

and here is what the child decided, without words:

• if love can walk away from me, it must be because i’m the kind of person love walks away from.
• if love is scarce, i should not ask for too much.
• if love is given to others more easily, something about me makes love expensive.

none of those sentences were true. but when a child has to guess, she will guess in ways that keep her loyal to the people she hopes might come back.

you grew up. you learned how to laugh. you learned competence and kindness and survival. but under the adult clothes, a small version of you still checks the door, still listens for footsteps, still feels lightning in the chest when you see someone being cherished in the way you were not.

this letter is how we change the ending for that child — not by pretending the past didn’t happen, not by forcing forgiveness before your bones are ready, but by learning the craft of reparenting and the art of building a chosen family, while making space for jealousy to contact its true name: longing.

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1) first truth: “it wasn’t fair” is not bitterness — it’s oxygen

you will heal faster once you stop arguing with reality. say it plainly, even if your throat shakes:

“it wasn’t fair. i did not get what a child should get.”

this is not dwelling. this is dethawing. as long as you insist “it’s fine,” your grief remains frozen, and frozen grief grows sharp edges. once you say “it hurt,” your system can begin to metabolize the pain.

tiny practice (90 seconds): put a hand on your chest and one on your belly; breathe in for 4, out for 6, three times. say out loud: “it happened. it hurt. i get to heal.” notice any small release. that’s your nervous system hearing you speak the weather correctly.

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2) jealousy is not your enemy — it’s your compass

jealousy is grief with its shoes on. it points at what matters. when you see someone held by parents and your chest stings, the feeling is not saying “you’re bad.” it’s saying, “this is the shape of what you needed.”

try this reframing:

• instead of “i’m jealous. i’m awful,” try:
  “i’m noticing longing. thank you, body, for remembering the blueprint.”

then ask, gently: what is the texture of the love i wanted? specific answers help: consistent check-ins? someone proud of my small wins? being defended when i was criticized? birthday effort? soft touch? these textures become the ingredients of your healing plan.

journal prompt: “when i picture a parent loving me well, they would ___ (5 lines). the feeling in my body would be ___.” keep it concrete. concreteness gives you recipes.

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3) the parent-wounds, named and softened

people talk about “mother wound” and “father wound” like they’re poetry. they are also practical:

• mother wound (neglect, inconsistency, comparison): leaves you scanning faces for approval; teaches you to win love by being useful/pleasing; makes you overfunction in relationships and implode alone.
• father wound (absence, rejection, instability): leaves you hungry for protection; teaches you love equals unpredictability; makes you either chase emotionally distant people or avoid commitment to dodge abandonment.

you might carry both. this is not a diagnosis. it’s a map. maps reduce shame — they show terrain and exits.

reframe: “my patterns are explanations, not excuses — and not sentences.”

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4) reparenting 101 — becoming the safe adult you needed

reparenting isn’t a hashtag. it’s a daily craft. you are not replacing your parents; you are installing a parent inside your life — a steady, kind, accountable presence who shows up every day… and that person is you (with help from others).

the four jobs of your inner parent

1. protection: set boundaries that keep your body and heart safe.
2. provision: ensure rest, food, shelter, medical care, money basics.
3. guidance: teach skills, tell the truth, repair when wrong.
4. delight: show pleasure in you for no reason (not performance-based).

notice “delight.” many adults can feed themselves but have never looked at their reflection with warmth. yes, it feels corny. do it anyway.

a simple daily “reparenting menu” (choose one from each)

• protect: say “no” to one small thing that drains you; leave a conversation that turns cruel; block a triggering feed for a week.
• provide: eat protein + fiber before noon; fill a water bottle twice; schedule the checkup; put $10 in an emergency envelope.
• guide: learn one micro-skill (budgeting step, recipe, assertive sentence); do a 10-minute tidy; write a 4-line plan for tomorrow.
• delight: wear the soft shirt; light the candle; take a photo of yourself smiling and don’t critique it; play the song that makes your shoulders move.

small, consistent acts build a parent pattern in your system. that pattern becomes familiarity. familiarity becomes safety. safety becomes freedom.

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5) grief work that actually heals (and doesn’t drown you)

we’ll use structured grief so you don’t get lost.

the letter triad

write three letters (don’t send them):

• to your mother: everything true — the ache, the envy, the small beautiful moments, the losses you can’t name.
• to your father: name the absence, the questions, the ways prison reshaped your life, the dignity you deserved.
• from your future self (age +10): what you learned, what you built, how you hold younger you now.

read each letter aloud to yourself. then choose a ritual: burn, bury, or box them. remind yourself you can revisit later — grief comes in seasons.

the empty chair

sit across from an empty chair. imagine the parent there. say three lines only:

1. “this is what happened.”
2. “this is how it affected me.”
3. “this is what i’m doing now to live well.”

stop. breathe. you are practicing closure without permission.

body release

grief isn’t only thoughts; it’s stored postures. try:

• child’s pose for 60 seconds (forehead to floor, hands by feet).
• hum for 30 seconds (vagus nerve).
• shake your hands and feet for 20 seconds (animals discharge stress by shaking; so can we).
  repeat every time the ache spikes. movement turns emotion into motion.

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6) scripts for jealousy moments (so you don’t turn on yourself)

• when a friend’s “family day” photo stings:
  “i’m glad love exists like that. i wish i had it. i’m allowed to feel both.”
• when someone says “but your grandma raised you — be grateful”:
  “i am grateful. i also grieve. gratitude and grief can hold hands.”
• when your inner critic says “you’re dramatic”:
  “i’m not dramatic; i’m de-prioritized by people who should’ve prioritized me. i can hold that and still be kind.”
• when you envy your half-siblings:
  “they received what i needed. my body is protesting a shortage, not plotting harm. i will give myself what they got: consistency.”

scripts are scaffolding. use them until your own language grows.

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7) boundaries with bio-parents (if contact exists)

you can love people and still refuse to bleed for them.

menu of boundaries (choose what fits now):

• time: “i can talk on sundays for 20 minutes.”
• topic: “i won’t discuss money/old conflicts by phone. text only; i’ll answer in 48 hours.”
• tone: “if the conversation becomes insulting, i will end the call.”
• access: holidays via group gathering only; no surprise visits.
• hope: “i release expectations. i will take what is true today without borrowing fantasy from tomorrow.”

short scripts

• “i’m not available for comparisons.”
• “that topic isn’t safe for me; i’m ending this call now.”
• “if you want a relationship, the minimum is respect. are you willing?”
• silence is also a sentence. you don’t owe answers to questions that cut you.

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8) chosen family: building the love you needed (on purpose)

you deserved love by default. since you didn’t get it there, you will build a circle that gives and receives with you. not instant. real.

how to start

• list five people you feel softer around (friends, a neighbor, a coworker, a cousin).
• choose two to invest in for the next three months. text once weekly; invite to a simple ritual (walk, tea, grocery run). intimacy grows in repetitions, not speeches.

rituals make family

• sunday soup: pot on the stove; anyone who shows up gets a bowl.
• thursday call: 15 minutes with a friend, same time each week.
• birthday covenant: three people agree to make birthdays visible (cards, cheap cake, a shared table).
• group chat named “the porch”: random check-ins, silly photos, “made it through monday” badges.

you are allowed to choreograph closeness. healthy love is organized.

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9) the “envy → action” alchemy

when you feel envy, ask: “what micro-action would give me 1% of that feeling?”

• envy: “their mom calls nightly.”
  action: set a nightly check-in with a friend or your future self (voice memo: “today i saw this; i felt that”). consistency feeds the attachment system.
• envy: “their dad fixes their broken shelf.”
  action: watch a 10-minute video and fix something small, or pay a handy neighbor and watch/help. competence is a parent feeling.
• envy: “their family vacations.”
  action: schedule a cheap half-day “mini excursion” with a friend — bus two stops farther, sit by water, eat something you’ve never tried. the nervous system wants novelty + safety; you can give both.

every time you respond with action instead of self-attack, you build trust with yourself. trust is the love you can feel from the inside.

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10) dating & friendship when you grew up underfed

hunger can make us choose crumbs. let’s choose better.

red flags for the underloved

• you feel you must earn basic kindness.
• they love-bomb then withdraw; you chase.
• you become the therapist/fixer/fund.
• you apologize for having needs.

green flags

• your nervous system quiets around them.
• they keep small promises consistently.
• repair happens after conflict without punishment.
• you can be ordinary together (no constant performance).

a boundary sentence to memorize:

“i like you too much to pretend this feels good.”

and to yourself:

“i will not audition for love. i will interview it.”

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11) therapy, support groups, and why help doesn’t mean helpless

a skilled therapist (especially trauma-informed, attachment-focused) can help you move from insight to integration. if formal therapy isn’t accessible right now, consider:

• adult children of emotionally immature parents (books/workbooks)
• support groups (grief, family estrangement, adoptee/kinship care circles)
• community mentorship (a faith leader, elder, teacher)

you’re allowed to be the one who asks for warmth first.

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12) the 30/60/90 reparenting roadmap

days 1–30: stabilize

• morning: 5-minute breath + one “delight” act.
• daily: pick one item from protect/provide/guide/delight.
• week 1: write the letter to your younger self.
• week 2: create the “envy → action” list (five conversions).
• week 3: set two tiny rituals with safe people.
• week 4: boundary practice (one script out loud to a mirror; one boundary sent by text if needed).

days 31–60: strengthen

• learn one life skill your parents didn’t teach you (budgeting basics, cooking three meals, car/bike maintenance). mastery soothes the father wound.
• decorate one corner of your space as “soothing zone” (lamp, blanket, plant, a photo of someone who has loved you).
• schedule one medical check you’ve avoided (reparenting is also practical care).
• attempt the empty chair exercise once.

days 61–90: deepen & decide

• evaluate contact with bio-parents: keep, reduce, pause? choose your peace without guilt.
• host one soup night or park picnic.
• write your “family values” on one page: “in my house we… (rest, tell the truth, apologize, celebrate small things, don’t compare).” hang it where you’ll see it.
• gift your future self: $10/week saved, a class booked, or a trip penciled in.

at day 90, you won’t be finished. you will be fortified.

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13) when a wave hits in public (quick resets)

• bathroom stall reset: palms on the wall, push gently 10 seconds, sigh out. name 3 tile colors you see. you just told your body it’s now, not then.
• bus stop reset: feel your heels in your shoes, count 5 exhales. text a friend “clouds look like bread today.” small connection interrupts shame.
• kitchen sink reset: run warm water over your wrists 20 seconds. warmth cues safety.

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14) if reconciliation is possible (and safe) — a cautious path

sometimes, later in life, parents grow. sometimes not. if you choose to try:

• premise: i’m seeking a different relationship, not a refund for childhood.
• request: “i want to try monthly coffee. i need respect, no comparisons, and no sudden asks for money. are you willing?”
• measure: does my body feel calmer after contact? do they repair when they slip? if not, adjust frequency or pause.

you can love someone and refuse to be a rehearsal for their guilt relief.

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15) if grief spills into thoughts of self-harm

if you ever feel like you might hurt yourself, that is not a character flaw — it’s your nervous system overloaded. please choose safety: contact your local emergency number or go to the nearest emergency department. if you’re not in immediate danger but the thoughts are sticky, make a safety plan on paper:

• triggers: (holidays, sibling photos, certain songs)
• soothers: (call ___, shower, walk, hold ice, grounding list)
• reasons to stay: write five (they can be tiny)
• people to call: two friends, one professional
• spaces: café, library, friend’s place
• steps if it escalates: “call ___,” “text ___,” “go to ER,” “ask neighbor for a ride.”

keep it visible. needing help means you’re human.

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16) a cupboard of small comforts (because body love counts)

stock a literal “care cupboard”:

• shelf-stable soups, tea/honey, good chocolate
• soft socks, a heat pack
• a notebook labeled “talk kindly”
• a printed list: “things that help for 10 minutes”
• spare phone charger (call for help without battery panic)

loving a neglected inner child means making sure the house you run never runs out of warm things.

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17) measuring progress without abusing yourself

you are not healed when you never feel jealous; you are healing when jealousy no longer turns into self-hate.

look for these signs:

• you recover faster after a trigger.
• you ask for comfort without apologizing.
• you stop confusing being needed with being loved.
• you can imagine a future family (blood or chosen) that feels gentle — and you take one step toward it.

celebrate with the seriousness of someone repairing a cathedral.

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18) a story about later

years from now, you’ll be in a kitchen that belongs to you. there will be a plant you forgot to water and it will still forgive you. there will be shoes by the door that are not just yours. on the counter, a note: “picked up milk. be home by six. proud of you.” you will read that note like a poem. you will not even realize until dishes that you saw a photo earlier — someone’s family trip — and your chest didn’t sting. it was just a picture. you will realize: nothing inside me is empty anymore; there are rooms in me now, furnished by my own hands and the hands of people who chose me.

you will wash the last cup. you will set it to dry. you will turn toward the living room where someone laughs at something small. and you will understand: the love i wanted existed all along; first i had to stop auditioning for a version of it that couldn’t love me, and then i had to learn the craft of giving it.

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19) words to keep in your pocket

• “i am not unlovable; i was unparented.”
• “their limits are not my value.”
• “i will not make my younger self beg anymore.”
• “i can be jealous and gentle at the same time.”
• “i am building a family — patiently, deliberately, and with kind hands.”

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20) a blessing for the middle child

for the child sent away and the adult who stayed:
may your rooms be warm and your boundaries be firm.
may you receive ordinary kindness every single day, until ordinary feels like home.
may your longing become a compass, not a cage.
may your hands learn the weight of gentle — on others, and on yourself.
and when you see love given freely to someone else, may your first thought be, “good — that exists,” and your second be, “and i am learning to live there too.”

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tiny summary (for your mirror)

• it wasn’t fair. you’re allowed to grieve.
• jealousy = longing; translate it into ingredients.
• reparent with four jobs: protect, provide, guide, delight.
• use scripts; set boundaries; build chosen family with rituals.
• practice structured grief (letters, chair, body release).
• convert envy into small actions.
• date with green flags; stop auditioning for love.
• follow the 30/60/90 roadmap.
• keep a safety plan; ask for help.
• measure progress by recovery, not perfection.

you are not behind. you are beginning — which is the bravest place to stand. if you want, we can turn this into a weekly reparenting checklist tailored to your life, or draft the first two texts to start your chosen-family rituals. but for tonight, put one hand on your own shoulder. say: “i’m here.” say it again. you are, and you will be. and that is the start of everything. 💛

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#DramoCiety #EmotionalHealing #FamilyTrauma #ParentalNeglect #MissingLove #LifePsychology #Acceptance #LiveInThePresent #SelfLove