Diary of My Trauma – Episode 1
I was born in Zimbabwe, a land of breathtaking beauty. But beneath that beauty, my childhood was a battlefield of its own. Growing up in Zim wasn’t just about navigating the political and economic storms that swept through the country; it was about surviving the storms within my own home. My story is one of resilience, forged in the crucible of unhelpful parenting, harsh discipline, and a mother whose nurturing felt more like a mirage than a reality.
A Foundation Built on Sand
“My parents weren’t monsters—they were a product of by their own traumatic pasts, shaped in a world where toughness was armour and vulnerability a crack in the shield. Still, their ways of coping carved deep fissures in me, ones I’d spend years trying to repair. My father, a truck driver, was both provider and enigma—ruling our home with an iron grip when he wasn’t gone for days on the road. He lived loud, chasing fleeting thrills, but when he was there, his presence brought a strange calm, a flicker of love I clung to like a lifeline.
My mother was a different puzzle. She drifted through our house in a fog, mechanically washing, ironing, and folding laundry or stirring pots, her mind miles away. Growing up, she’d dreamed of finishing her education—a goal stolen by her parents’ split—but that ambition never translated into warmth for me. She wasn’t cruel in the shouting, slamming-doors way. Her absence was subtler, sharper—a chill that settled into my bones. I’d ache for a hug, a soft word, anything to bridge the gap, but she’d meet my needs with a clipped, ‘What’s wrong with you?’—as if my hurt was a flaw to fix. I’d see other moms soothing their kids, brushing away tears with tender hands, and wonder why mine couldn’t spare that gentleness ( this is still going on for me to this day). She kept me fed, clothed, alive—but emotionally, I was left to fend for myself. Early on, I learned a hard truth: reaching for comfort was a roll of the dice, and I rarely hit the mark.”
The Weight of Unhelpful Parenting
“The echoes of my parents’ ways didn’t just fill my childhood home—they carved themselves into who I became. My father’s iron-fist rule, swinging between absence and control, taught me to shrink. I’d brace for his temper, dodging sharp words or worse, and mastered the art of fading into the background—always guessing, always sidestepping the next storm. Meanwhile, my mother’s cold distance sowed something deeper: a nagging whisper asking, Am I even worth loving? That doubt trailed me like a shadow, seeping into every friendship, every romance, until I finally faced it head-on years later through my own healing.
Turning Pain into Power
“Adversity taught me what my parents couldn’t. Their tough ways—my dad’s harsh hand, my mom’s icy distance—lit a fire in me. At first, it was anger, even hate, but I turned it into love. Every sting from them pushed me to be different, to give the warmth I never got.
Leaving home was my big break—not loud, just a quiet I’m done. For years, I was trapped in my own head, a prison I didn’t even know I was in. Therapy? Didn’t cross my mind—back then, I didn’t see my wounds, and the word ‘mental health’ felt like a curse.
I’m still a work in progress. The past left marks—I doubt my every move; I doubt kind words—but it doesn’t own me. Zimbabwe gave me tough roots; hardship gave me wings. My dad’s rules taught me grit; my mom’s coldness taught me how to stand alone. People would say my parents made who I am, but I beg to differ, I made me ! I had to look for me inside and became my own person with my own values.
If my story sounds like yours, hear this: you’re not alone. We don’t have to carry our parents’ baggage. We can grab the broken bits of yesterday and build something unbreakable. Growing up in Zimbabwe wasn’t just hard—it was my teacher. And I’m still growing, still rising, one bold step at a time.”
