Story of my becoming— part 2
The Little Girl Who Learned Love Too Early
As I was driving, my thoughts went to the little girl who never really got to pause, breathe, or simply enjoy being loved.
I had strict parents. For them, having a perfect daughter was the ultimate goal. Discipline mattered more than affection. Correction came more easily than comfort. Love felt conditional — something to be earned, not something freely given.
That’s what gets me.
A girl from that kind of family ended up stepping into things she never would have dared to — things maybe a girl from a more gentle, protected home wouldn’t have even encountered.
She was in that in-between age — tween turning into teen. She noticed him first. A relative of a neighbor whose presence suddenly became more frequent. She didn’t understand why. She only knew she caught him looking at her when she was playing with the neighbor’s child.
He must have been around fifteen. A few years older than her.
The first time someone looked at her that way, her heart skipped. She liked the feeling. She didn’t know what it meant — only that it made her feel seen.
Soon, he tried to talk to her. She found small, stolen moments when her mother or the neighbor auntie wasn’t watching. She would stand there looking at the floor, knowing he was looking at her, and then run back quickly, saying her mom would be mad if she was gone too long.
The looks continued.
So did the blushing.
One day, she found the courage to see him alone again, away from watchful eyes. He gave her a half-eaten guava. She took it softly and ran back home to show she was there, then went near the balcony to eat it.
It was supposed to taste sweet.
Out of love.
But it tasted awful to her. She hated overripe fruit. It made her feel sick. She almost threw up. But she forced herself to finish it.
This is what love does, right?
Force yourself to do things you don’t want to do.
Where did she learn that?
Maybe from a home where she didn’t get to choose. Where love came with threats. Where obedience was framed as love. Where saying no was not really an option.
After that, the excitement faded. She still liked him, but something in her also resented him. It could have been just a fruit, just a small thing — but to her, it felt like an expectation to like something she didn’t. To accept something that didn’t feel right.
Maybe if she had known how to speak up, things would have been different. But fear of disappointing was stronger than her voice.
Another month passed. Her hormones were rushing. She felt special again — having an older boy interested in her. Did she love him? No. Looking back, it wasn’t love. At most, it was attraction. But she didn’t have the language for that then.
One day, he called her aside to the spiral staircase — always dark, always quiet. Her heart was pounding. Excited and scared at the same time. She went anyway.
He came closer. She froze. She could have moved away, but she didn’t. He kissed her on the cheek. His lips were wet.
She ran back to her room, holding her breath. Her cheek felt like it was burning. Wasn’t it supposed to feel good? She hated wet kisses — she knows that now. But back then, the kiss gave her an icky feeling she couldn’t explain.
The next day, she had a pimple on that same spot. Maybe it was coincidence. But in her mind, her smooth, soft brown skin felt invaded. She felt angry. She felt dirty. She resented him.
At that point, he didn’t feel exciting anymore. She avoided him and even avoided the neighbor. And yet, somewhere inside, she felt like she owed him.
Why?
She didn’t like him.
But she liked the idea of love.
She liked the idea of being special.
Sometimes, in her daydreaming, she would write “I love you” with his name in the bathroom and erase it before leaving. One day, she forgot.
Her mother saw it.
That day, she saw a side of her mother she didn’t know existed.
Her mother used words no mother should ever use on her own daughter. She accused her. She shamed her. She crossed emotional and physical boundaries in a way that left deep scars.
Get A Woman in Becoming’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
The little girl couldn’t tell what hurt more — her body, her heart, or her sense of safety.
That was the moment she turned all her anger toward him. It was easier to hate him than to face the reality of her mother’s abuse or her own deep loneliness.
She avoided him like the plague. His attempts to talk to her felt like stalking. She was terrified — not just of him, but of what her mother would do if his name came up again. Even his presence nearby, without her choosing it, made her shake.
She prayed she would never see him again.
And her prayers were answered.
Her mother made sure they moved to a different house, a different area, a different school. Far away from that place. Far away from that chapter.
From then on, love was never simple for her.
Love meant adjusting.
Love meant compromising.
Love meant being careful.
Love felt complicated.
And yet — she still loved love.
⸻
Almost Three Decades Later
Almost three decades later, love came to me differently.
Soft.
Slow.
Careful.
Making sure I am okay.
Creating safety first — and using that as the baseline.
That little girl inside me finally felt safe.
Not because of a boy.
Not because of a parent.
But because of me.
Through that overflow, through that self-love, the man I found met me there.
I remembered the look on his face when I drove away.
I felt happy.
I felt, this is it.
God knows how I drove and reached home.
When I walked in, my daughter came running and hugged me tight. She was ready to hear everything — not yet. 😊
My son wiped his lips and gave me a big kiss on my cheek. I smiled bigger than usual.
God… I love this life.
Thank you for this love-filled life my heart always longed for.
I settled into my comfy chair, looking out the glass door from my room. That’s when I noticed a message from Rishi:
“Reached?”
I know how much emotion that single word carried.
Smiling, I replied. Then I held my phone close to my chest — as if I was holding love itself in my arms.
