This story is about a Malaysian woman who grew up thinking her childhood was normal, until therapy helped her understand that what she experienced was not just discomfort, and that her family had chosen silence over protection.
When people ask me about my childhood, I usually say it was okay.
My family was not poor. My parents worked hard. We had food on the table, went to school, and celebrated festivals like other families. Our house was always noisy with aunties, uncles and cousins. My mother liked to say that we were a “simple but happy family”. For a long time, I believed that.
But when I look back now, I realise that there were things in my childhood that never felt right, even though no one wanted to talk about them.
There was a relative in our family that everyone trusted.
In our kampung, people respected him. My parents always spoke about him nicely. During weddings and gatherings, he was treated like a good person, someone you don’t question. As a child, I was taught to respect him like any other elder.
But when I was young, I did not feel comfortable around him.
I did not have the words to explain it. I just knew that I did not like being alone with him. Sometimes he would call me to sit near him when adults were busy, touching my arms and legs in a strange manner. Sometimes he would comment on my body, saying things like I was “growing up fast”. Sometimes he insisted on hugging me even when I tried to move away.
At that time, I thought maybe I was rude.
Once, when I was around ten or eleven, I told my mother that I did not like being near him.
She looked at me and said, “Why are you thinking like that? He is family. Don’t say things that make us look bad.”
I felt guilty. After that, I stopped talking about it.
In my house, children were not supposed to question adults. If I avoided him, I was told to be polite. If I looked uncomfortable, I was told I was imagining things. Slowly, I learned that keeping quiet was easier than explaining how I felt.
For many years, I convinced myself that nothing serious happened.
I told myself that I was just sensitive. That I misunderstood things. That my childhood was normal.
Everything changed in my mid twenties.
One day, I was talking with friends about childhood and boundaries. Some of them shared how therapy helped them understand their past. Their stories made me uncomfortable in a strange way.
A few months later, I decided to try therapy.
At first, I felt silly. I thought my problems were not big enough compared to others. But slowly, memories started coming back with feelings of fear and tension. The way my body reacted around that relative. I told my therapist about him.She listened quietly and said, “What you described sounds like your boundaries and body were violated, not respected.”
I remember going home and crying for the first time about something I thought I had imagined.For the first time, I realised that what I experienced was not just discomfort, I was abused as a child. Soon after that, during a family wedding in our kampung, something happened that I will never forget.
An aunty was talking about that relative and said, laughing, “He is such a good man. You were lucky to grow up with people like him around.”Without thinking, I said, “Actually, when I was younger, I didn’t feel safe around him.”
The room became quiet.
My mother immediately said, “Why are you saying this now? This is a wedding. Don’t embarrass the family.” My father laughed and said, “You always exaggerate things. You had a good childhood. Stop talking nonsense.” Everyone laughed lightly and the conversation moved on, but I felt like something inside me broke.
At that moment, I understood something very clearly. It was not that my parents did not hear me.
They heard me. They just did not want to believe me.
Later that night, I asked my mother why she reacted that way. She said, tiredly, “Do you know how people talk? If you say things like this, they will think something is wrong with our family. They will blame us.”
That was the moment I understood the truth. My parents were not protecting me. They were protecting our family’s reputation.
Today, I am still part of my family. I still attend weddings and gatherings. I still see that relative sometimes. But things are different now.
I avoid being near him. I no longer force myself to smile. I no longer pretend I feel comfortable.
My parents never apologised. They never fully admitted that something was wrong. We do not talk about it openly. But I have stopped trying to convince them. Therapy helped me understand that my memories are real, even if my family refuses to acknowledge them. My childhood was confusing and full of things that were never named.
For a long time, I thought being a good daughter meant staying silent. Now, I know that silence was never safety.
I am still healing. I am still learning how to trust my own guts and memories.
And even if my family continues to protect their version of the story, I am finally allowed to believe mine.
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