I grew up thinking love was something you had to earn.

My parents weren’t the type to hit, but their words left scars no one could see. I was the first son, expected to be strong, emotionless, responsible for everyone else but myself. There was no space to feel. No room to be vulnerable. Every time I tried, I was told to “man up.”

“You’re the man of the house.”

“Stop crying like a girl.”

“You’ll never be good enough if you keep acting soft.”

At school, I worked hard. I brought home good grades, stayed out of trouble, did everything by the book, but it was never enough. A “B” meant I was lazy. An “A” meant I got lucky. If I failed at anything, I was a disgrace.

“We didn’t raise you to be mediocre.”

Sometimes I’d sit in my room and just stare at the walls, wondering what it would take for them to be proud of me, not just tolerate me, not just demand more from me but see me. Not as a project. Not as a provider-in-training, rather a person. A boy who was just trying his best.

My father never told me he was proud of me. Not once.

My mother loved me through fear and control. Everything had to be done her way, no questions, no opinions. If I spoke up, I was “disrespectful.” If I stayed quiet, I was “cold.”

They never noticed when I started to shut down emotionally. They thought I was being rebellious. I was just, tired. I stopped sharing, stopped dreaming out loud, stopped believing that love could be gentle.

Now I’m grown and I’m still healing. Still learning how to express myself without shame. Still trying to believe I don’t have to be perfect to be loved. That I don’t have to earn rest. That I’m allowed to set boundaries, even with them.

When I see parents praising their kids for trying, hugging them without reason, telling them “I love you” just because; it hits me. That’s what I never had and that’s what I’ll give to my own kids one day.

Because I know now:

Being a son doesn’t mean being a soldier.

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