In the shadowed corners of a dimly lit room, a baby lay small and fragile, eyes wide with an early, piercing awareness of a world that felt both immense and indifferent. Nearby stood a mother, her physical presence close yet her spirit adrift, embodying a relentless pattern that was as familiar as it was unyielding. This was no simple neglect; it was a choreographed ballet of proximity without connection, where hearts remained untouched despite the closeness of bodies.

From the very beginning, needs were met with harsh rejections. A simple cry for water was met with a cutting, “Suck your own spit,” embedding a deep-seated belief that asking for anything was inherently wrong. The child quickly learned to mute their desires, internalizing the notion that to need was to fail. Autism intensified these rigid patterns, sharpening their perception of every subtle movement—the way the mother angled away, the weight of her sighs, the stifling silence that followed.

The father’s presence loomed even larger, his silence oppressive and his hands often speaking volumes. Each day unfolded as a cycle of anticipation and reaction, a relentless effort to adapt and survive amidst the emotional chaos. Carrying the burden of others’ emotions became second nature, a vital survival strategy. The child wasn’t merely ignored; they were saddled with someone else’s turmoil. 

A twin had been framed as the sensitive one, the emotional cornerstone of the family. She was given the emotional space that the child wasn’t afforded. It became the child’s responsibility to manage her feelings and keep her steady. When she cried, the expectation was clear: the child had to fix it. During conflicts, the onus to apologize always fell on the child, regardless of who was at fault. This arrangement ensured that her emotions consistently took priority, while the child’s needs were left behind. 

Instead of breaking free from these entrenched patterns, the twin grew into them. Over time, she became a sharper, colder reflection of the mother—a new form of the same emotional distance the child was already navigating. Managing her emotions became just another layer of survival, further entwining the child within the family’s exhausting emotional routine.

Growing up like this meant losing oneself. Personal feelings didn’t matter, and any needs were seen as problems to hide. Bending to fit others’ expectations chipped away at who the child was, making survival the only goal. The mother’s control shaped everything. Early lessons showed that personal needs and feelings didn’t matter compared to being useful. To stay in her good graces, the child had to shrink themselves, always watching for the slightest shift in tone, every glance, every pause, ready for the next fallout.

Being useful became the key to survival. The child learned to anticipate every emotional shift, every sigh, every fleeting glance, catching signals before they could get worse. Mistakes weren’t allowed, and self-preservation meant constantly adapting. Their identity was lost, becoming just a reflection of what was needed.

A photograph captures a moment from the past: both figures present—the child, wide-eyed and trying to understand a world that pushed them aside, and the mother, showing the coldness of unspoken resentment. Even in that still image, the rules were clear: don’t ask, don’t expect, don’t need. Survival was all that mattered.

Years of fitting into places where they didn’t belong left a lasting sense of not being enough. No matter how much the child bent, it was never enough; something always broke, but never themselves. Now, standing in a space free from the need to be useful, the child faced a strange new reality. It felt like waiting for a signal that would never come, a sharp contrast to a lifetime of constant vigilance. Slowly, they realized—it wasn’t coming at all.

The journey wasn’t over, but one thing was clear: they were still here. Whatever path lay ahead would be their own. Survival was no longer enough; living meant standing tall, something that felt impossible after years of bending. It was time to ask, “Who am I if I’m not holding everything together?” There was no easy answer.

The work began—untangling what was truly theirs from what they had to carry. No longer serving as a mirror for others’ needs, new questions arose: What do I want? What makes me feel real? The answers weren’t clear yet, but the determination was strong. They were still here, and whatever they became would belong solely to them. No more bending, no more apologizing—just being themselves.