just a teenage with mommy daddy issues 👧💔

🌧️ "Not the Daughter They Imagined" 

There’s a kind of loneliness that doesn’t come from being alone.

It comes from being unseen.

From growing up in a house full of people who don’t really know you.

My name doesn’t matter for this story.

Because honestly, this could be any girl’s story.

It could be yours.

It could be your friend’s.

It could be the quiet girl who sits at the back of the class with perfect hair but puffy eyes.

It could be the loud girl who jokes a little too much, laughs too hard, and flinches when you mention the word “home.”

Chapter One: My Mother, the Stranger

They say moms are supposed to be your first best friend.

Your protector. Your soft place to fall.

But what if your mom never even looked at you like she liked you?

I remember being little, like 6 or 7, and watching other girls hug their moms after school. Their moms would fix their hair, tuck their coats around their shoulders, or whisper something that made them smile.

My mom? She stayed in the car.

On her phone.

Always annoyed.

Always somewhere else.

Growing up, I learned her moods like a weather app.

I could tell when a storm was coming.

She didn’t have to yell; her silence was worse.

The coldness.

The sighs.

The disappointed looks when I wore the wrong thing, said the wrong thing, or just... existed wrong.

She wasn’t physically abusive, no. But emotional distance? That can cut deeper than a belt.

She called me names when she was angry. Not obvious ones—more like "dramatic," "sensitive," or "just like your father."

And oh, when she said that last one, I knew I had messed up.

Chapter Two: My Father, the Ghost

Now, let’s talk about him.

The man who gave me his last name.

The man who gave me... absolutely nothing else.

My dad was always there but never present.

The type of dad who worked late but not for us.

He worked late to stay away.

He had this talent for making me feel invisible.

Like when I tried to talk to him about my day and he’d say, “Tell your mother, I’m tired.”

Like when he completely forgot my birthday one year, then said, “Oh, that was today?” with a shrug.

He never told me I was beautiful.

Never made me feel protected.

Never gave me anything to believe boys should give you.

So now, when I date, I confuse red flags for attention.

Toxic for thrilling.

And silence for stability.

I once heard someone say, “A girl’s relationship with her father determines her self-worth.”

If that’s true, what happens when your dad never saw your worth at all?

Chapter Three: The Teenage Girl I Became

The girl I grew into?

She’s tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of being the “strong” daughter.

Tired of being the one who understands why her parents are broken but still has to be the glue.

I’m the girl who overthinks everything.

Who apologizes for things that aren't her fault.

Who keeps people at arm's length because being close hurts too much.

I’m the girl who cries alone at 3am and then smiles like nothing happened the next day.

At school, I’m “funny.”

On Instagram, I’m “pretty.”

In my room, I’m a war zone.

I used to wish for different parents.

Now, I just wish I could unlearn what they taught me about love.

Chapter Four: The Little Things I Craved

I didn’t want much.

I just wanted:

A mom who asked how I really felt.

A dad who remembered my favorite color.

A hug after a hard day instead of criticism.

A home that didn’t feel like walking on glass.

Instead, I got:

Silent treatments.

Comparisons to other kids.

Doors slammed in my face.

And the worst kind of love—the conditional kind.

Chapter Five: Healing Isn’t Pretty, But It’s Possible

This isn’t a sad ending.

I’m still healing.

Still unlearning.

Still figuring out what love means without strings attached.

I’ve started journaling.

I write letters to the little girl I was—reminding her it wasn’t her fault.

I surround myself with people who see me for me, not who they want me to be.

Some are friends. Some are online strangers. Some are just songs that put the pain into words.

Therapy helps too (when I can get it).

And music.

And the kind of crying that leaves you breathless but lighter.

Healing doesn’t mean pretending they didn’t hurt me.

It means choosing not to pass that hurt onto myself anymore.

 For Every Girl Who Feels Like Me 💔

If you’ve read this far, maybe you’re like me.

Maybe you didn’t get the parents you deserved.

But listen closely:

You are not unlovable.

You are not a burden.

You are not your parents’ failures.

You are a soul worthy of tenderness, of softness, of joy.

And maybe your healing will look like setting boundaries.

Or moving out as soon as you can.

Or crying in the shower and then getting up for school like nothing happened.

Whatever your journey looks like, just know this:

You are not alone.

And your story matters—even if they never took the time to hear it.

💬 Let’s Talk

If you’ve ever felt like the daughter no one understood, comment below. Share your story. Let’s build a space where girls like us can feel seen.

Because sometimes, strangers on the internet make better parents than the ones we grew up with. But also be careful whom we share our information with.