The Cost of Peace: A Child's Silence

My dad would usually be in the kitchen, or somewhere close enough to hear both my mother’s shouting and my sobbing. He would try—feebly—to placate her. “Honey, let her practice. She’ll get it right.”

My mom would snap back: “She would get it right if she’d stop messing around!”

But the yelling wouldn’t stop.

Each wrong note brought an onslaught of terror, panic, and shame. I could never seem to be perfect on the first try. What I subconsciously learned in those moments was that my mistakes and failures made me unworthy of love. They made my mother seem to despise me.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but those moments planted something in me that I carried into adulthood. I learned to see mistakes as fatal.

The shame burned inside of me—hot in my chest, hot behind my eyes—until the tears poured out, no matter how hard I tried to stop them.

Now I recognize that burning in my chest for what it truly was: anger.

I was angry at my dad for not being strong enough to stop my mom. He saw the abuse. He heard it. And he didn’t try hard enough to intervene. I felt like a low priority to him—secondary to his fear of upsetting her. I sensed he was scared of her, and I resented him for it. He had the power to protect me, but chose peace with her over protection for me.

From him, I learned a subtle but potent lesson: keep quiet, keep peace, and suppress the voice of your own conscience.

And I was angry at my mom—for how she treated me, for the shame she dumped on me, and for the helplessness I felt as a child with no agency. Any response—whether I tried to speak up, cry, or stay silent—was met with more yelling, more criticism, more shame.

I learned a lesson, alright.

Keep up the facade of perfection.

Don’t make mistakes.

And if you’re not sure you’ll be amazing on the first try—don’t even attempt it.