A Reflection on Judgment, Family, and the Fight to Be Free: An Invalidating Family

Everyone thinks they know what’s best

They don’t trust my judgement, put me to the test

No one wants to let me be me

Do what works for me, can’t you see?

I’m not hurting anyone, but my ideas are dismissed

Thought of as stupid, not fit to exist

The way I communicate doesn’t correlate

With what they expect, I’m made to hesitate

Why can’t I just be me, why can’t I be free?

To express myself, to live authentically

Why can’t people just love me for who I am

Instead of trying to change me, and make a different plan

I long for acceptance, for understanding and grace

To be seen for who I am, not just a different face

I crave the freedom to be me, without fear or shame

Why can’t people just love me, and let my true essence remain?

There’s a certain heaviness that comes from constantly being misunderstood. It's not always loud—it doesn’t always come in the form of screaming matches or slammed doors. Sometimes, it’s the quiet undermining, the raised eyebrow, the dismissive “I told you so.” It’s the way people, especially family, claim to know what’s best for you—as if your life is a script they’ve been handed, and your only role is to read the lines they’ve written.

But I’m not reading their script anymore.

For most of my life, I’ve wrestled with the weight of other people’s opinions—especially the ones closest to me. I’ve been made to feel like I wasn’t capable, like I was always one decision away from proving them right: that I couldn’t do it, that I wasn’t enough, that I’d never figure it out. It’s exhausting trying to chase their approval when it’s never really been within reach.

And lately, I can’t help but ask myself: Is this just how my family is? Were we built on narcissistic patterns, passed down like heirlooms no one wants but everyone keeps? Are people truly jealous of what they can’t do themselves—or are they just too scared to try, so they belittle the ones who dare to?

That thought haunts me.

Maybe they, too, were told they weren’t good enough. Maybe they were criticized instead of comforted, torn down instead of encouraged. And instead of breaking the cycle, they became it. That doesn’t excuse the damage, but it helps me understand it. It helps me stop internalizing their projections as truth.

All my life, I’ve felt like I had to shape-shift just to be accepted. I’ve mastered the art of reading a room—not to connect, but to survive. I’ve learned to adapt to other people’s personalities, to echo their opinions, to laugh at what they laugh at, and nod when I wanted to scream. I did this not because I lacked thoughts of my own, but because having my own voice—my own ideas—always felt like a threat. It was safer to side with them. It was safer to be who they wanted me to be.

That was the only time I felt seen. Or, rather, the only time I wasn't completely invisible.

In my family, love often came with conditions: agreement, obedience, silence. Disagreement was met with silence, distance, or worse—mockery. Speaking my mind meant rejection. And so I stopped. I became who they needed me to be to earn scraps of affection or attention. Not because I wanted to, but because I thought that was the only way to be loved.

Even now, as an adult nearing 40, I struggle with the residue of that survival strategy. I’m not married. I don’t have the thriving career I envisioned, although I am working towards that now. My emotional world often feels like a battlefield, and relationships are still so complicated. Sometimes, I wonder if I truly know who I am underneath the masks I’ve worn my entire life.

What hurts most isn’t that I’ve made mistakes—it’s that my family never gave me the grace to make them. I was met not with compassion, but with “I told you so’s.” Every stumble was proof to them that I couldn’t do it. And that belief slowly became mine, too.

Now, I find myself longing for something simple yet profound: the freedom to just be myself. Not the curated version of me that keeps the peace, not the agreeable daughter or the adaptable friend. Just me—raw, opinionated, imperfect, real.

I want to be free from the judgment of others, especially from those who were supposed to love me unconditionally. I want to stop seeking validation from people who only noticed me when I mirrored them. I want to believe—deeply, fully—that I don’t have to earn love by shrinking myself.

And maybe, just maybe, I want to stop asking, “Why can they do it but I can’t?” Maybe they were told they couldn’t, too. Maybe we’re all just carrying pain passed down like an unwanted inheritance. But I don’t want to carry it anymore.

What I want is grace, not judgment. Encouragement, not condescension. And most of all, I want the permission to live a life that is mine—messy, unique, whole. I don’t want to live my life constantly trying to prove them wrong or begging to be seen. I want to be free—free from their judgments, free from the constant need for validation, free from the fear of failure that was never mine to begin with.

And so I’m learning to be my own validation. To tell myself, “It’s okay. You’re doing your best. Try again.” I’m learning that self-trust is louder than their doubts, and self-love is stronger than their ridicule.

And maybe that’s the beginning of my freedom: finally realizing that I don’t need to hide who I am just to be accepted by people who may never learn how to accept themselves.

If you have an invalidating family, I understand your pain.