Content warning: This post discusses emotional neglect, lack of parental affection, and the long-term psychological impact of growing up without unconditional love. It’s vulnerable, it’s painful, and it’s honest about damage that’s hard to reverse.
A roof over my head. Food on the table. Clothes to wear. School to go to. Materialistic things to own.
According to my parents, that was more than enough. And for years, I believed them. I believed that having the basics meant I had no right to complain, no right to feel the emptiness that gnawed at me from the inside.
But I’m in my mid-thirties now, and I’ve come to understand that what they gave me kept me alive, but it didn’t help me live. There’s a difference between surviving and thriving, between existing and being truly seen.
This is my attempt to understand how flawed parenting shaped me into someone who struggles to believe she deserves love, care, or even basic kindness from herself.
I’m writing this as someone who will never become a parent. I know how unqualified I am for both marriage and raising kids. But more than that, I’m writing this as a warning: emotional neglect does serious, lasting damage. The consequences are hard to recover from. Some might be impossible to reverse.
Layer 1: The basics without the heart
My parents provided. I had a home, food, education. On paper, they fulfilled their duties.
But love? Affection? Encouragement? Those were luxuries they never thought to give unconditionally.
Let me tell you something: we don’t hug and we don’t kiss. “I love you”? You’ll never hear those words from my parents. NEVER. Maybe love was expressed through my mom’s housekeeping duties and my dad’s hard work. Words of encouragement? They were scarce. And I’m being completely grateful for even that scarcity.
There was no “How are you doing?” No “Good luck on your exam.” No celebration when I graduated at the top of my class, again and again. Their response was always the same: “We know you’ll do well. Don’t worry.”
It sounds supportive, doesn’t it? But it wasn’t. It was indifference dressed up as confidence. They weren’t engaged with my journey – the stress, the effort, the victories. They just assumed I’d be fine and moved on.
And here’s the thing: when compliments or congratulations did come, it was only AFTER I expressed how upset I was for not hearing them. After I got angry. That’s when they’d say they were proud of me, compliment my hard work, my character. Damage control. Not genuine pride. Just shutting me up.
Those words don’t land when you know they wouldn’t have been said if you hadn’t complained first.
I needed to feel loved, supported, heard, and validated by my parents. I didn’t.
And that absence carved out a void inside me that nothing – not achievements, not friendships with neighborhood kids, not playing PlayStation with my siblings, not hanging out with my cousins – could fill.
I was so starved for affirmation that I used to believe weirdos online when they complimented me. Remember the MSN era? Yeah. I’d take words from complete strangers on the internet more seriously than I should have, because at least someone was saying something nice to me.
Layer 2: The invisible daughter
I was always a good student. Not because they pushed me, but because I wanted to be. I was self-motivated, driven by something internal that I can’t fully explain even now.
But they never asked about my homework. Never wished me luck before exams. And when I told them I’d graduated at the top of my class again, they didn’t congratulate me. Even after I told them how much it hurt not to hear those words, nothing changed.
I existed in that house, but I was never truly seen.
I remember telling my father I had an important online interview. His response? “Ok, so what?”
I was taken aback. Hurt. I told him I just wanted to give him a heads-up to keep the noise down. That was months ago. I didn’t get the job. Guilt must have taken over him somehow, because he asked me later how it went. But the entire conversation felt like talking about the weather.
I lived in that house in Morocco for years, stuck in my room with no future, no job, no money, no career. He never once asked me how I was doing. As long as I kept my mouth shut and didn’t ask him for anything, it was all good to him.
Layer 3: The emotional void
There were no family dinners with real conversation. Whenever we tried to do something together, it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t because everyone was busy. It was our dynamics.
My father especially hated being with us. Whenever he was, he’d turn on the TV or radio and crank up the volume. That way, we’d have zero conversation. No connection. Just noise filling the silence.
As his daughter, I felt extremely unworthy.
I never heard him tell me I was beautiful. Never heard him say he was proud of me. I grew up feeling ugly, and that’s what I became in my own eyes. If someone told me I was ugly today, I’d just say, “OK.” Because I already believe it.
I try not to think so negatively about myself, but it’s extremely hard when that’s all you’ve internalized for 36 years.
Layer 4: When feelings became the problem
In my family, feelings were invalid. Whenever something went wrong in my life, whenever I tried to express how I felt, it turned into yelling and arguments.
My father would say “There is no power or strength except through God,” or “We’re the laughing stock of the neighbors,” or “I’ll just leave the house and you won’t know where I’m going.”
My mother said the same variants of this nonsense. At best, they’d say something that was supposed to make me feel better but did the complete opposite.
My pain was dismissed. My emotions were treated as a burden, an inconvenience, something shameful that reflected badly on them.
I learned to stay silent. To disappear into my room. To carry everything alone.
Layer 5: The checklist I created to feel worthy
Because I never felt inherently worthy of love, I created a checklist of things I thought would make me deserving:
- A prestigious university education
- A well-established career with a high-paying job
- Multiple streams of income
- A car and a house
- Millions in my bank account
- Traveling the world
You know what? None of these happened.
I spent years believing that love had to be earned through extraordinary achievements. That I had to become someone exceptional before I deserved affection or care.
But I’m starting to realize, slowly and painfully, that I should have been loved simply for existing. That’s what children deserve. That’s what I deserved.
I just can’t keep hating myself anymore. It’s made me miserable to the point that it shows in the way I carry my body, how small I feel among people, and the way I dress.
Layer 6: Mimi, the only one who loved me
My cat loved me when no one else did.
That’s literally the title of my future novel, though I don’t know when I’ll write it.
My family just called her “kitty” in Darija. I was the one who gave her a real name: Mimi ♥️
For ten years, she was my only source of joy in that unbearable existence. She loved me for me. She didn’t need me to achieve anything, stay silent, or earn her affection. She just loved me – freely, unconditionally, completely.
Her loss was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. At the time of writing this blog post, she passed four years and four months ago, and I still cry when I talk about her.
I regret not taking more photos of us together. I only have one or two selfies. But I framed her photo and brought it with me when I moved to Canada. She came with me in the way she could.
Mimi showed me that I was lovable. That I was worthy of devotion. In a house where my presence was tolerated only when silent, Mimi chose me.
Layer 7: Learning self-care at mid-thirties
I’ve never done any kind of self-care my entire life. I started my halfway routines – skin and hair – at mid-thirties.
My mom taught me exactly zero things about feminine self-care. I grew up seeing her never take care of herself, unless it was buying a new djellaba. My dad never took care of himself either. They both let themselves go, and that speaks volumes about something I’m yet to fully understand.
What’s even wilder? My mom always used to ask me, “Why don’t you take care of yourself? Why did you let yourself go? You should take care of yourself.”
I told her once, “Hello? You’re the one to talk!” (Not in those exact words, but I conveyed the meaning.)
She blamed me for a deficit she created. How was I supposed to learn self-care when neither parent practiced it or taught it?
Now people say, “You have no excuse because information is abundant online. YouTube will teach you everything.”
Somewhat true, but YouTube can teach you the mechanics of a skincare routine. It can’t teach you that you’re worth the time and effort. It can’t undo more than three decades of internalized messages that you don’t deserve care.
That’s why my skincare products sit there, half-used. It’s not laziness. It’s that every time I go to use them, I’m fighting against decades of programming that says I’m not worth the effort.
I even apologized to my body and my hair. I told them, “I’m so sorry I neglected you all these years. You definitely didn’t deserve it. You were there for me the whole time, and yet I did you wrong. I won’t let you down again.”
You may call me crazy, but that’s how deep the damage goes.
Layer 8: Two hells, I chose the lesser
I moved to Canada as a new permanent resident in Q4 2023. It didn’t go as planned. I had to return to Morocco in the summer of 2024 and stayed there for ten painful months until the next summer of 2025. Then I came back to Canada because the situation was unbearable.
I took a calculated risk.
You know what my father said when we were saying our goodbyes at the airport?
“If you have any problem again in Canada, just tell us and we’ll get you a flight ticket to Morocco immediately.”
I didn’t argue. But inside, I was thinking, “Seriously? Why wouldn’t you say you’ll send me money to help me build my future in Canada?”
He was offering me an exit strategy, a way to return to that room where I’d be quiet and out of sight, rather than support to help me succeed.
Life is still hard in Canada. I’m still having trouble finding a job, even minimum wage. I’m living off my savings. Despite all my financial suffering, I would NEVER trade it for a return to Morocco. I have no plans to even come for a short visit.
Both situations are hell. I just chose the lesser of two evils.
Layer 9: What keeps me going?
I don’t know what keeps me going. Maybe because I have to, not because I want to?
There’s no inspirational story here. No triumphant ending. I’m not running on hope right now. I’m running on necessity, on the sheer biological imperative to keep going because the alternative isn’t viable.
I grew up full of psychological complexes: insecure, with zero self-esteem and confidence, with self-love nonexistent, replaced by self-loathing.
I’m analyzing what happened in my entire upbringing because I want to understand WHY and HOW I turned out the way I am.
I want to love myself the real way, not that YouTube talk that doesn’t satisfy me. I want to truly believe that I can achieve everything I want in this life.
I want to feel that I’m enough, that I’m just okay the way I am, as long as I don’t behave inappropriately and I treat everyone with respect. I may not be the smartest, the prettiest, the fittest, or the richest, but I’m not that bad.
All I need is to feel that my existence is important to someone.
I realized that it’s fine if I’m not perfect. Comparing myself to others is a losing game. My successful peers didn’t go through the same shit I did, and we all didn’t start life from the same starting point.
The truth I’m learning
Money makes life sustainable, but love makes it worth living.
My parents ensured sustainability. They missed that their daughter needed the love that makes life feel worth living.
I have faith that my life will get better at some point as long as I’m working on it. While other people get ahead in life faster than the speed of light, things for me are always slow and delayed. Regardless, I have faith that my time to shine is yet to come.
I just don’t know if I’m going to enjoy it when I’m too old. I’m already in my mid-thirties. I’ll hit 40 in a few years.
But maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I’m exactly where I need to be. Maybe the work I’m doing now, teaching myself care and worth from scratch, is creating a foundation that will support whatever comes next.
I’m not a worthless loser, even though that’s what the voice in my head tells me.
I survived an emotionally abusive, neglectful household and didn’t completely break.
I educated myself and became a top student repeatedly.
I recognized the toxicity and left, twice.
I loved Mimi deeply and gave her an identity when no one else did.
I’m learning self-care from scratch.
I’m pursuing dreams: exploring new interests, planning businesses, envisioning a life of my own creation.
The layers of flawed parenting run deep. But I’m here. I’m still trying. And maybe that’s enough for now.
To Mimi: You loved me when no one else did. Thank you for showing me I was worthy of love. I carry you with me always. ♥️
Featured image courtesy of Pexels.