The Weight of Sharp Words

I wasn’t always talked to with kindness growing up, and it hurt me very deeply.

Sometimes I still hear those echoes: the tone, the way the words landed, how they made me shrink and harden at the same time.

It shaped me into a strong, firm, and direct woman. One who can hold her own, stand tall, and speak truth without flinching. But that armor has an edge. Sometimes I go too far. Sometimes my tone carries the same sharpness I once feared.

My mom and her side of the family were sharp with their words. Quick tongues, heavy tempers. Love wasn’t always soft there — it came dressed in lectures, corrections, and cutting remarks. My mom said some very mean things to me growing up, things that stuck to my spirit long after I moved away.

Now I understand that much of it was a reflection of her pain. She was hurting — a Black woman carrying the weight of loss, pressure, and exhaustion. She was getting beat up by the world and then coming home to me, her child who needed, questioned, and wanted so much. In her mind, maybe I was adding to her burdens.

But I was just a kid. I didn’t understand her struggles.

How could I?

I’d never been an adult before.

And she’d never really opened up about her heartaches or heartbreaks, not in full. I’d only catch glimpses, little stories shared in pieces, often framed like competition:

“All I’ve been through.”

“I lost everything.”

“What you going through ain’t nothing.”

I used to internalize that, like my pain was small. But with time I’ve learned, we can’t compare our struggles in full, only in part. Each of our lives unfolds based on the times we’re in, the homes we were raised in, the cards we were dealt. We all just learn to survive differently.

My cousins could be mean, too. Especially the ones who didn’t have as much growing up.

My mom always helped them. She gave them money, bought them clothes, opened our home. Sometimes she left me with less to give them more. She meant well, she was generous and big-hearted, but it left me feeling invisible sometimes, like love was something I had to earn by being strong, quiet, or less needy.

I never went without materially growing up. I always had what I needed: food, clothes, toys, comfort. But what I really needed was emotional presence. I needed gentleness, compassion, and patience from both my parents.

Because I’ve always been a sensitive and needy soul. I wanted to be heard, seen, and understood. I wanted to feel safe to express myself without being told I was dramatic, spoiled, or too much.

But the more I tried to express myself, the more it seemed to push people away. The more I spoke, the more I was misunderstood. I felt like I was always too much or not enough, depending on the day.

I never fully fit in, not with the cool Black kids, not with the rich white kids, not with the theater kids. I was this in-between girl: too hood for some, too proper for others, too soft for some, too direct for others. I was a mixture of all of them but never fully belonging to any group.

Sometimes I still long for connection with my cousins. They were at our house all the time growing up: holidays, weekends, random days in the summer. Our home was the gathering place: big house, nice cars, junk food, toys, laughter. My mom was the glue, the giver, the one everyone called when they needed something. She was loved by them deeply.

But me? I think they liked me in moments but carried some resentment, too. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was misunderstanding. Maybe it was just the survival instincts we inherit when love feels scarce.

Even as adults, some of them still said hurtful things. One cousin, in particular, would constantly insult my intelligence — make snide comments, try to belittle my experiences. The irony is that she dropped out of college, which doesn’t make her less worthy, but it’s the projection for me.

Why attack me when I’m not competing with you?

I’ve realized some people can’t stand what mirrors back their own unhealed parts. And I’ve stopped dimming myself just to keep their comfort intact.

There are a few cousins I still hold close, though.

Shan and Mikayla.

Mikayla and I just started getting closer, she’s younger, and when we were little, she lived in Alabama while I was in Michigan. We’re both in Atlanta now, and we make time to see each other when we can. She’s different from me in many ways, but we overlap in the places that matter. She listens without judgment, doesn’t try to tell me who to be or how to think. She just experiences me. That’s something rare to be experienced instead of managed. I give her that same grace back.

Then there’s Shan.

He’s still in Michigan. We don’t talk as much as I’d like, but when we do, we dream together. We talk about the life we want: peace, stability, purpose, joy. He’s a little flakey, but I know if I really needed him, he’d show up. That’s love, too, the quiet, imperfect kind.

I think about it all sometimes: how sharp words shaped me, how silence wounded me, and how love was there but buried under survival.

I’ve learned to forgive the people who didn’t know how to speak to me gently. I’ve learned that their sharpness wasn’t always cruelty — sometimes it was fear, exhaustion, or inherited pain.

But I’ve also learned to hold myself accountable.

Because now I’m the adult.

Now I’m the one who has to unlearn the sharpness and speak to myself and others with the kindness I always needed.

I’m learning that I can be both soft and strong.

That I can speak truth and still lead with tenderness.

That I don’t have to raise my voice to be heard.

And that every time I choose kindness, even toward myself — I break another generational pattern that once tried to silence me.