She remembered having to pack their bags in the middle of the night, again.
Her father, a man of Indian heritage, worked long hours at the hospital. The nurses at the local clinic knew him well. But what they never knew was that when the home phone rang before he finished work, it was his young daughter calling at her mother’s request ( this was so much pressure for this young person).
Her mother would whisper, “Call the clinic and ask what his temperature is.”
It wasn’t about his health.
It was code for what mood is he in tonight?
Was he calm and light-hearted or was it going to be another night of shouting, terror, running down the street, calling the police (they did nothing, because he had stature), and bruises?
Her mother, an orphan, had no one to protect her. The girl grew up watching scenes no child should ever see. Her mother tied up and beaten. Her father’s rage filling the house. On New Year’s Eve, he pushed her mother’s head down the toilet. Every Christmas, the tree was ripped down before the day arrived. Toys were burnt. Decorations smashed. They lived in hotels for safety, sometimes weeks at a time. The little girl would still go to school, pretending everything was normal, carrying secrets too heavy for her small frame.
There were countless beatings. Endless fear.
And still, the little girl longed for her father’s approval and despite long term therapy, medication, ECT, still wants his acceptance. She cherished the rare moments when he helped her with homework or brought her sweets. Those tiny fragments of kindness kept her hoping. That maybe, if she was quiet enough, or good enough, he would love her.
That’s how trauma bonds form, in the confusion of love intertwined with pain.
In therapy years later, she began to understand that vigilance had kept her safe, but it wasn’t the same as peace. That she had learned to read danger before it spoke. That she had survived by anticipating the storm.
But not all vigilance looks like suspicion. For some children raised in violent homes, survival takes the shape of being agreeable. This little girl learned that keeping the peace kept her safe. If she stayed quiet, helpful, compliant – maybe the shouting wouldn’t start. Maybe her mother would be okay. Maybe she could slip through the night unnoticed.
As an adult, that survival strategy didn’t turn into paranoia. It became people-pleasing. She wasn’t guarded or mistrustful – in fact, she often trusted too easily, especially with those who showed warmth or authority. Boundaries felt foreign. Red flags felt familiar. Not because she was naïve, but because her childhood taught her that love and fear could come from the same person. Fawning had once kept her alive.
This is one of the quiet ways intergenerational trauma carries forward:
a child who survived through compliance becomes an adult who struggles to protect her own needs.
Healing for her now means learning that safety doesn’t have to be earned. That kindness doesn’t require self-abandonment. And that she never needed to shrink herself to be worthy of love.
At Reflections Psychology Services, we support those who grew up walking on eggshells, those who learned to measure danger before love. Healing begins when the child inside us realises she was never to blame.