From the very moment we take our first lungful of air, a cycle begins that we will live out for the rest of our lives. That first breath doesn’t just mark the start of life — it marks the end of something too. Birth is trauma. Birth is pain. It’s not clean or beautiful, it’s violent and messy, a forced arrival squeezed through a passage that barely fits. And for some, like the perfect full-term baby I once received into my arms, breath never comes. Even life’s beginning is edged with grief.

From that moment on, pain becomes something we’re taught to avoid, though we’ll never outrun it. We fall. We cry. We bruise. And how we are received in those moments — whether held with care or hurried along — begins to shape us. Some parents, full of fear, hover and protect. Others expect a brave face too early. But either way, our relationship with pain is forged.

Then comes school, and the world cracks wider. The teacher hands you off to strangers. A kid says you’re not their friend anymore. One day you’re in, the next day you’re out, no reason other than the wind shifted. A playground exile. A betrayal before you even know what betrayal is. And when you go crying to an adult, you’re told: “Find new friends. Play with everyone. Keep your options open.”

And so the training begins. Avoid pain by not getting too close. Don’t bet your heart on one friend. Don’t give too much. Don’t love too deeply.

But what if you did? What if, like me, you found someone who sang in your language? What if, just for a while, the whole world faded and it was only you and that friend, that soul-tether? And then one day, they moved away. Gone.

You’re told it’s your fault for loving too much. For not hedging. For not spreading yourself around. You’re punished for loyalty.

And if you’re a little boy in the ’70s who wants to grow up and be a girl, you get told to grow a set. Stop crying. Stop being soft. Get on with it.

We’re pushed into two camps: either keep things light, casual, and plentiful, or get hard, stay alone, and don’t feel. But both models fail us. One gives us sugar and distraction; the other gives us silence and shame. And all of it starts with a simple pain that we were too young to understand.

By seven, they say, you are the adult you’ll become. And for me, that adult was forged by grief, by confusion, by knowing I was different and still giving everything I had. I gave because I thought giving was the way to love. I gave to be seen. I gave until I bled.

What I didn’t know was: most others weren’t playing the same game.

I believed in soul mates. I believed in the poster in the shoe shop window, two children walking hand-in-hand down the road, the Start Rite kids. No options. No exits. Just you and me. That was love. That is love.

I lived my life with my hand outstretched, waiting for someone to hold it and not let go. And in the meantime, I learned to find the magic in solitude. I learned to walk alone. Because it was better to be alone and whole than surrounded and unseen.

I’ve survived baby death. Adoption. Betrayal. I’ve lived with people who loved me but couldn’t stay. People whose own trauma meant they couldn’t give what I gave. And I’ve been told, over and over, I was too much. Too soft. Too intense. Too kind. But not anymore.

Today, I see the truth. I was always enough. Always.

Those who left did so from fear, not because I lacked anything. I see now that their coping was not rejection of me, but protection of themselves. That’s what childhood teaches us: to protect at all costs.

But I’ve chosen another way. I still hold out my hand. I still believe in love with no back door. I still believe in the road where two people walk forward, eyes open, hearts exposed. And yes, that love burns. It scars. But it’s real. And I’d rather feel it and be hurt than live a life of numbness and hedged bets.

This is the message of my life: you will hurt. You will bleed. But if you keep your heart open, if you keep asking why, you will find the truth of you. You will know you are enough. You always were. And maybe, just maybe, someone else will be brave enough to walk beside you, fingers interlaced, no barleys, no exits.

Because the fire of love is worth it. Because true love starts not with perfection, but with pain.

Start Rite, kid.

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TL;DR

A raw reflection on how childhood pain shaped a life of deep loyalty and unshakable love. Through trauma, solitude, and clarity, a belief emerges: that true love is found not in options, but in the unwavering grip of two hands walking forward, together.

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Final Reflection

Sometimes, the truest kind of love isn’t about never being hurt — it’s about choosing to keep your heart open despite it all. If you feel like you’re too much or too tender for this world, you’re not. You’re exactly what this world needs more of.

Keep offering your hand. Keep believing in that walk side by side. There is someone out there who doesn’t need options — just you.