When I was five, my senior kindergarten teacher wrote on my report card that I was immature because I refused to nap. Not couldn’t—wouldn’t.

It struck me, even at that age, as completely unfair. I wasn’t wild or disruptive. I just didn’t see the point of lying down in the dark when I wasn’t tired. Apparently, that made me difficult.

By the time I was seven, I was being considered for skipping a grade. I was already reading well beyond my level, and I loved learning. But they ultimately decided against it, not because I wasn’t smart enough, but because of my behavior.

Behavior, of course, was code for: I asked too many questions. I didn’t follow rules I didn’t understand. I didn’t pretend to believe things just because an adult told me to.

And that’s when I started getting the message that being me was problematic. That being curious, expressive, or independent wasn’t something to be proud of—it was something to tone down, to grow out of, to fix.

So I did what many sensitive and bright children do when the world feels confusing and unsafe—I adapted.

When I was eight, I decided to stop crying.

Not just less often. At all. I told myself I would go an entire year without shedding a single tear. It was a secret vow—no one knew I was doing it. But I was absolutely serious. In my mind, tears were proof of weakness, and I wanted to prove I was strong, composed, and completely independent.

And I was good at it.

I became an expert at not needing anyone. I didn’t cry when I was sad, didn’t complain when something hurt, and didn’t show emotion that might rock the boat. I learned to rationalize pain instead of feeling it. I thought about my feelings instead of experiencing them. I lived from the neck up—smart, efficient, and controlled.

I got a lot of praise for being “so independent.” But it wasn’t real independence, more like pseudo-independence. Emotional suppression disguised as competence.

The trouble is, when you cut yourself off from vulnerable emotions like fear or sadness, you also cut yourself off from joy, intimacy, and the ability to ask for help. You become good at surviving—but not at being.

I wore my independence like armor. But it was heavy. And it kept me lonely.

It took decades before I realized that my so-called “independence” was a sign of my being stuck in a developmental delay. That my refusal to cry wasn’t strength—it was self-protection. That my rationalizations weren’t resilience—they were avoidance dressed up as logic.

And while that emotional shutdown helped me feel safe in childhood, it kept me stuck in adulthood. I was so focused on being in control that I never learned how to be with myself. How to grieve. How to ask. How to receive. How to trust that my needs weren’t shameful or too much.

Today, I still don’t cry easily. But I let myself feel. I know now that real independence isn’t about holding it all in. It’s about being able to show up to your emotional life without fear or shame.

Because strength isn’t stoicism.

It’s honesty.

 

If this resonates with you—if you’ve built your identity around holding it together—I want you to know: You’re not broken. You’ve just been surviving. And you don’t have to stay there.

👉 Want support reclaiming your emotional self, without losing your edge? Let’s connect. I work with emotionally intelligent professionals who are ready to feel more, not less.