I grew up in a home where love was fragile and truth was buried. My parents’ arranged marriage began with deception—my father, partially deaf and previously married, had not disclosed this to my mother before she left Sabah for Singapore. When she found out, she wanted to leave. But my grandfather forbade it.

My mother carried with her a legacy of wartime trauma. Her father, my grandfather, had been tortured during World War II. Her eldest sister, violated by a soldier, never recovered emotionally. My mother lived in the shadow of their pain—battling depression, and eventually, dementia and leukemia.

I remember one day, I was nine or ten. My mother was lying in bed in the middle of the day, curtains drawn. I had just come back from school and was excited to show her my spelling test—I had got everything right. But when I opened the door, she didn’t move. Her eyes were open, but they looked through me, distantly. I stood there for what felt like forever, the paper slowly curling in my hand. That silence was louder than anything I’ve ever heard.

My younger brother carried his own storm—truancy, violent outbursts, and behavioural issues that eventually saw him sent to a boarding school for four years. I, in contrast, was the “good one,” the achiever, the fixer. I ranked in the top 10% in PSLE, attended Nanyang Girls’ High, and graduated with First-Class Honours from the University of Wales. But behind that success was a girl holding everyone’s pain, including her own, in silence.

When I was 16, my father died of a stroke. I became the breadwinner overnight—still a teenager, but no longer allowed to be a child.

Given all these events in my life, Invisibility became a constant theme for me. I was the one who didn’t ask for much, who kept peace by keeping quiet. I equated love with service—thinking if I just did more, helped more, gave more, I would finally be loved in return.

That belief followed me into adulthood. Into marriage, into motherhood, and into the disintegration of my marriage.

When my marriage eventually unraveled, it wasn’t sudden. It had been eroding slowly—worn down by emotional distance, unresolved baggage, and unspoken pain. My husband eventually left, and I was left with the burden of the aftermath—three children, grief, and decades of unprocessed trauma.

In 2020, amid a particularly painful period of accusation and gaslighting, I voluntarily sought a psychological assessment. I remember sitting in the waiting room, palms sweating. The aircon was cold but I was flushed with heat. I kept wondering, “What if they say I’m broken? What if everything they said about me is true?” When the psychologist gently said, “You’re not mentally ill, but you are deeply, deeply stressed,” I broke down. It wasn’t just relief—it was grief. Grief for all the years I had coped instead of healed.

That diagnosis was the beginning of a shift. I began to see the patterns—how trauma passed silently from one generation to the next, like an invisible heirloom.

The hardest part for me of all this was seeing it take root in my children, in the anxiety, the self-doubt, and the cautious way that they express emotions. Sometimes I catch them flinching at raised voices, and I see myself in those flinches.

Once, my eldest told me, “I feel like I always have to be good or you’ll stop loving me.” This response shattered me, because I had never said that. But somehow, they learned it—just as I did.

So I work every day to rewrite that lesson. I hold them when they cry. I tell them it’s okay to mess up. I apologise when I get it wrong. I fight to be the safe harbour I never had.

Some days, I’m okay. Other days, I’m in survival mode. I cry quietly while washing dishes, or behind closed doors when no one is watching.

One night, after a particularly harsh exchange with my ex, I collapsed on the bathroom floor, sobbing into a towel. I didn’t want the kids to hear. I remember gripping the towel so tightly my fingers ached—just to keep from falling apart entirely. But even in that moment, I whispered to myself: You’re still here. You’re still standing.

I am learning to give myself grace.

I may not be able to erase the past, but I can transform it. I can raise children who know they are loved without conditions. I can break the chain of trauma.

Beyond caring for my children, I’ve also found meaning in my work supporting education, outreach, and digital communications in the social sector. Each day, I contribute to systems that uplift vulnerable communities—work that mirrors my personal journey. In many ways, this allows me to process my own story and transform pain into purpose, helping others feel seen in ways I often didn’t.

My story isn’t over. But I am walking forward—with tenderness, with faith, and with hope that healing is not only possible, but already underway. 

Elizabeth works in the social sector, where she supports education, outreach, and digital communications for a charitable foundation. She is passionate about creating safe spaces for healing and believes deeply in the power of storytelling and second chances. Outside of work, she enjoys photography, quiet nature walks, and meaningful conversations over coffee.

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Image Credit:  Brandon Green on Unsplash