What Changes When You’re Truly Heard

When I was growing up, I was never truly heard.

So much so that I didn’t really know what it felt like to be listened to, understood, and met.

My parents had their own ways of showing care — things that mattered most to them.

My mom fussed over our physical wellbeing: did we eat enough, did we sleep on time. My dad loved fun and play. He was lighthearted, and in some ways that was a gift — it felt like having another playmate at home.

But I was more than what could be held by meals and laughter.

I was sensitive.

I was timid.

And I thought deeper than most of my peers. Without guidance, a lot of what I felt and experienced didn’t make sense — to them, or even to me.

When I was 12, I’d been told again and again, “Study hard. Leave a name for yourself, like the greats.”

So I asked the question that had been sitting in my chest: “Is it more important to live fully while you’re alive? Or to suffer through life just to be successful and remembered — like Albert Einstein or something?”

There was a pause.

Then I heard: “You think too much.”

“You’re too sensitive.” “You think too much.”

Whenever I shared my experiences — my thoughts and feelings — I usually got the same responses:

“You’re too sensitive.”

“You’re thinking too much.”

Other times, I got silence. Or the topic would change abruptly.

After hearing the same message enough times, I started to internalise it: maybe my experience wasn’t valid. Maybe I was thinking and feeling the wrong way. I began to feel ashamed of my own inner world.

And worst of all, the more I tried to share, the lonelier I felt.Every time I opened my mouth, I somehow felt even more disconnected.

So I started observing and mimicking the way people around me talked. I paid attention to what mattered to them, and I learned to speak the same way.

And it worked.

I got connection. Conversations became livelier. People engaged more. I stopped hearing things like “you’re too sensitive,” “you’re overthinking,” or being met with silence and a sudden change of topic.

I thought: I must be doing something right.

But as time went by, I felt lonelier — lonelier than ever. It didn’t make sense.

It felt like something inside me was screaming. Loud, urgent… but voiceless. Sometimes the feeling got so intense it was like I needed to claw something out from the inside just to breathe again.

It was overwhelming — and deeply isolating. Because I knew that if I shared it, I would get the same old responses. And those responses would leave me feeling like my experience was wrong.

The irony was painful: I had changed myself to feel connected. 

And it worked — on the outside.

But inside, I had no one to share my truth with. And if I did share it, I would be back to square one.

I felt stuck between a rock and a hard place, with no way out.

Back then, in the world I was in, counselling was almost unheard of. People treated it like something you only did if you had money to spare — or if things were so bad you had no choice.

So with my limited understanding, and how I was struggling at the time, counselling didn’t even register as an option.

I found some relief on the internet

Back then, the internet was starting to become what it is now. Long-form YouTube videos were everywhere, and people were putting out content on spirituality and psychology. Mental health awareness wasn’t as common as it is today, so finding that kind of language felt like luck.

Those videos made me feel less alone. And before I knew it, I was listening to them day and night.

And I started to feel like I was living a double life.

In the outside world — at work, with friends, around family — I put on a mask. I became a version of myself that was easier to relate to. A version that made conversations smoother, more pleasant, more “normal.”

But when the internal voice got too loud, I would lock myself in my room, search for the right keywords, and press play — just to get some relief.

Those videos gave words to what I couldn’t explain. And in a strange way, someone on the other side of the world — without knowing me — could name my experience more accurately than the people around me.

It brought relief. It made me feel less lonely.

And for the first time, I felt — in a strange way — heard and understood.

And that cycle went on for years.

It was like how someone reaches for a cigarette when work gets overwhelming — not because it solves anything, but because it offers a few minutes of relief. A way to cope with stress that’s too much to hold alone.

For me, it was the same kind of relief. Not from work stress — but from the loneliness.

Many years later, I realised I couldn’t keep soothing the surface. I needed to go to the root. I needed a real person — someone who could listen, really hear me, and help me make sense of my experience.

But it wasn’t pleasant at all.

Whenever I felt ready to share with someone in my life, the voice in my head would get loud: “This is stupid. You’re going to get shut down. You’ll feel worse than before.”

Sometimes I listened to that voice and stayed quiet.

Sometimes I pushed through — and the voice was right. I was invalidated in all sorts of ways. And somehow, I felt worse than when I relied on free content online.

So I kept yo-yoing — trying again, then retreating. Reaching for my old ways of getting relief.

Until eventually, I caved — and I went for counselling.

I finally sought counselling

I’ll be honest — paying money for someone to talk to me felt like a foreign concept. It felt strange. My parents’ voices echoed loudly in my head: “What a waste of money.” And a part of me worried she was only doing this because I was paying her — not because she actually cared.

So at first, I treaded lightly. I watched her expression. I listened closely to her reactions, almost waiting for the moment I would be shut down.

But it didn’t happen.

She might not have lived my exact experiences, but she was genuinely curious about them. She created a space that felt safe and non-judgemental — not because she said it was, but because of how she held herself with me. She didn’t rush to correct me or minimise what I felt. She asked questions that helped me understand myself, not just questions that satisfied her curiosity.

For the first time, I felt witnessed at my core — and still accepted.

I went every week, like clockwork. And before I knew it, I had opened up fully. I used to think counselling would make me dependent on her. But it did something different.

It regulated my nervous system. I didn’t feel like I had to brace myself for invalidation, attacks, or dismissal. When difficult feelings rose, she stayed with me. She co-regulated with me — and over time, that taught me how to regulate myself.

It felt like an anchor was slowly being built inside me.

Counselling didn’t make dependent

I thought I would start running to her whenever something bad happened — because I didn’t know how to handle it on my own.

But instead, the opposite happened.

I started to take in the tools she gave me and make them mine — tools I’d never been taught growing up.

My parents believed that if you give too much support, people become dependent. In their minds, counselling could become that kind of help — comforting, but weakening.

But counselling wasn’t someone handing me a solution.

It was more like learning to fish with someone steady beside me — until my hands remembered. Until I could do it on my own.

Now I know how to fish. It’s a skill I’ll carry for life.

And I don’t have to starve myself of support just to prove I’m independent.

Over time, something changed. I didn’t become dependent on counselling. I became more capable: less afraid of my feelings, less apologetic for my needs, and more able to respond instead of react. I still had hard days — but my inner world stopped feeling like an emergency.

Now, it feels safer to share myself without spiralling. I don’t replay conversations that felt like rejection for days anymore. And sometimes, when I pause and look back at where I started, I realise how far I’ve come.

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Our nervous system learns through experience, not logic. When your experiences are shared in a safe, non-judgemental space — when your truth is witnessed and held — something inside you begins to update.

You start to learn, not just intellectually but in your body: “I can be honest, and I’m still safe.”

Even when life on the outside is messy, you’re less likely to collapse or brace in the same way, because you have something steadier to return to.

Something changes when you’re truly heard.You begin to build an inner sense of safety — an anchor you can carry with you.

There’s a lot of free content online that can help you make sense of your experiences. And it can be genuinely supportive. But real change often comes from being held in a relationship – From having a space where you can tell the truth, be met, and let your nervous system learn — over and over — until that safety becomes yours.

If you’ve spent years editing yourself to stay connected, counselling can be a place to practise telling the truth — slowly, safely, without judgement. You can stop performing, and start coming home to yourself.

If you’re ready to have your story heard and held, reach out. Click “CONTACT ME” at the top right of this page to book a free discovery call, or drop me a message.