It was supposed to be a perfect day. A rare treat. Growing up, soda and junk food were strictly off-limits. My mother was careful about what I ate, always pushing healthy choices—water instead of cola, home-cooked meals instead of fast food. But on this particular day, the rules were bent.
We went to McDonald’s.
I remember the excitement—the smell of fries in the air, the bright red trays, and the colorful Happy Meal boxes stacked behind the counter. McDonald’s was running their Monopoly promotion, and I was obsessed. Each Happy Meal came with little game pieces—stickers that felt like treasure. I collected them with the seriousness of a young detective chasing clues.
I sat down with my cheeseburger, my fries carefully lined up like little golden soldiers, and my prized soda—the cold, fizzy reward I almost never got. Ketchup pooled on the side of my tray, waiting for fries to dive in. Everything was just right.
Then it happened.
My mother, maybe smiling, maybe just tired, reached across the table and said, “Let me have a sip of your drink.”
It wasn’t a question.
I pulled the cup back sharply and blurted out, “I don’t want to catch anything.”
I was only nine, but already something in me was afraid—afraid of germs, of invisible dangers I couldn’t explain. I didn’t want her to drink from it. At that age, moments like these began shaping my understanding of disease, of boundaries, of how things passed from one person to another. Looking back, this might have been the first time I ever connected love with risk.
The moment froze.
She looked at me, and her smile faded. Her eyes shifted—just slightly, but enough for me to notice. Embarrassment? Sadness? I didn’t know what to call it then, but it washed over me like cold water.
Now, years later, I recognize it: pain. A kind of hurt that looked like rejection, maybe even betrayal, coming from the person she’d made that special day for.
We didn’t talk about it. We finished the meal in silence I didn’t fully understand, but I felt it—an invisible distance sitting between us, just as real as the tray on the table.
It was still a wonderful day at McDonald’s. But it was also the day I learned that even small gestures carry weight—and sometimes, they leave echoes long after the fries are gone.
I also learned something else that day: that honesty, especially when it comes from fear, can still hurt someone. That sometimes, no one really wants to hear how you feel—especially if it conflicts with what they want. And when you're a child, your feelings and fears are often brushed aside, made smaller, because you're “just a kid.” But those feelings stay with you. They shape you.
The Ride Home
The car ride home was quiet.
I don’t remember if the radio was on. I don’t remember if we talked. I only remember the hum of the tires on the road and the heavy feeling in my stomach—not from the food, but from something else. Something heavier.
I stared out the window, watching the world pass by in smears of color. I was still clutching my cup, now mostly filled with melted ice. I didn’t sip it anymore.
In my mind, I feel like I got a spanking that day. I can’t say for sure. My memory blurs in places like that—moments where love and pain got too close to tell apart. Maybe it was later. Maybe it didn’t happen. But something about the way I sat still in the back seat, tense, small, waiting for something—I know that feeling too well.
There were days when my body braced for punishment before it ever came. Days where silence wasn’t peace, but a warning.
I had already learned how to block things out. How to tuck away what scared me, confuse me, hurt me. Not just to forget—but to survive.
By the time we got home, I don’t remember the rest of the day. I don’t remember what I did with the Monopoly pieces. I don’t remember if I watched cartoons, or cried, or stayed in my room.
What I do remember is that this day, like so many others, folded into the shape of something I would carry without even knowing it. A moment that would echo in future silences, in boundaries, in how I handled fear, love, and guilt.
I didn’t know then how that day would follow me.
But it did.
It showed up in ways I couldn’t name until much later—when I pulled back from people without knowing why, when I hesitated to speak a truth at times that might make someone uncomfortable, when I felt guilt just for needing space. I learned, quietly and early, that fear can be punished, that honesty isn’t always welcome, and that love—especially a parent’s—can be fragile when tested. This builtbup anger resentment, because being unapologetically honest since the womb was a part of me.
I carried the a part of that silence from that car ride into friendships, relationships, even rooms where nothing was wrong. I became good at reading the air, sensing shifts in mood before words were ever spoken. It made me cautious. Made me kind, maybe, but also guarded. I learned to anticipate anger, even when it wasn’t there.
Sometimes I wonder how much of that day really happened the way I remember. Memory is slippery like that—especially when trauma is involved. The mind does what it has to. It seals off what’s too much, blurs the lines, lets the edges go soft. But the feelings? They stay sharp.
Sometimes I wonder how much of that day really happened the way I remember. Memory is slippery like that—especially when trauma is involved. The mind does what it has to. It seals off what’s too much, blurs the lines, lets the edges go soft. But the feelings? They stay sharp.
And that’s what I trust most now. Not every detail. But the feeling. That moment taught me something I couldn’t unlearn: that love can hurt, even when it’s trying not to.
It became a skill I carried into adulthood without realizing and sometimes behaviors I had to unlearn. Sitting through
conversations that hurt. Smiling in situations that felt wrong. Going numb instead of speaking up. Disappearing, just enough to keep myself from breaking or breaking others..
The Struggle Within
I was only 9 or 10, but already I could feel myself changing. Not in ways that people could see, but in ways that mattered. I could sense the shift inside me—the way I was learning to avoid conflict at all costs.
When something wasn’t right, I’d say “It’s fine” even when it wasn’t. When I didn’t want to share, I would, because it seemed easier than explaining why I didn’t. If someone asked for something I wasn’t ready to give, I’d stay quiet, even if every part of me screamed to say "no."
It wasn’t about being selfish. It wasn’t even about being mean. It was about avoiding the look. The one my mother had given me that day at McDonald’s. That quiet, painful expression of confusion and hurt. I hated seeing that look. It made me feel like I had done something wrong—like I was wrong for having my own needs, for setting boundaries, for not always wanting to give.
So, I buried those feelings deep inside. I learned to twist the truth, to reshape my responses so I wouldn’t upset anyone. In the back of my mind, I promised myself I’d never be the cause of that hurt again.
The Moment of Truth
One afternoon, a small but significant moment changed everything. My mom handed me the cup. She asked, “Can I have a sip?” And for a split second, I felt a wave of panic rise up inside me. My mind flashed back to that day in McDonald's—how I had recoiled from her, how she had looked at me with surprise and sadness. I didn’t want that again.
But I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t know how to explain that I felt afraid, that sharing my drink felt like sharing a piece of myself that wasn’t ready to be shared. So, I said nothing. I just handed her the cup, even though my fingers trembled around it.
Inside, I was screaming. I didn’t want to share. But I didn’t know how to refuse, either. I was trapped between the need to protect myself and the fear of disappointing her.
The worst part was that I didn’t feel relief when I handed her the drink. Instead, I felt empty. I had betrayed myself. I gave her the cup to keep the peace, to avoid the conflict of saying no—but in doing so, I had learned nothing new. I was still stuck, still terrified of causing any kind of tension.
The Aftermath
I tried to bury the uncomfortable feelings, but they wouldn’t go away. They sat in my chest, like stones, weighing me down. I couldn’t understand why I felt so guilty for something so small. After all, it was just a drink.
But the truth was, it wasn’t just about the drink. It was about everything that came before it. It was about the way I had learned that it was easier to avoid what I didn’t want to, than to risk causing anyone else pain.
At 9, I wasn’t fully aware of the long-lasting impact these lessons would have on me. But I could feel the effects—the internal war between my fear of conflict, the frustration of holding my tongue and and my desire to keep others from feeling hurt being me seemed to always get me in trouble. I knew, even then, that I had to learn how to find my own voice, even if it meant facing discomfort. Even if it meant letting go of the habit I had developed of saying “yes” when I meant “no.” But believe me this only lasted a few years as you cannot never truly hide who you are but so long while still carrying learned patterns unfortunately it creates a toxic mix bread of dysfunction.
