The Invisible Burden of Growing Up in Two Worlds
October 12, 2025
Faith Story Series — Part Two
This post is part of my Faith Story Series, where I’m sharing how God’s light met me in the wilderness — one chapter at a time. In my last post, I shared what it was like to grow up between two very different homes — one grounded in faith and structure, the other tangled in addiction and chaos. This next part takes a deeper look at how that environment shaped my heart, my anxiety, and my understanding of love — and how God has been redeeming it ever since.
Carrying What No One Could See
Life at my dad’s house came with high expectations—chores, respect, honesty. I wanted to be the good kid, the one who made him proud. But after living with so little structure at my mom’s, following rules felt hard. I’d lie about little things—homework, chores, small details that didn’t even matter—and then drown in guilt when the truth came out. My dad always found out, and each time, I’d sit through another lecture about “the ladder of trust.”
Lying wasn’t my only mistake. There was a season when I even stole money from my siblings’ piggy banks. My dad made me repay every coin and apologize face-to-face. I can still feel the sting of shame from that day. I wasn’t trying to rebel; I was trying to fill the gaps left by scarcity at my mom’s. Food was often limited, and sometimes, buying a snack from the gas station made me feel normal—like every other kid.
Looking back, I can see how insecurity and survival shaped those choices. But in the moment, it just felt like doing what I had to do to get by. The enemy knew exactly how to twist those moments. He whispered lies—“No one will notice,” and “You deserve this since you never get what you want.” Fear took the place of faith, and I acted from that fear.
Trouble seemed to follow me, but my heart still longed to do right. I wanted my dad’s approval so badly, yet it never felt like enough. My stepsister always seemed to follow the rules so effortlessly, and I envied her calm confidence.
Looking back, that tension between striving and falling short only deepened when my role in the family changed—from being the youngest and only child to suddenly becoming the oldest in a blended home.
Shifting Family Roles
Dad had only me, while Mom raised my two older half-brothers. For my first seven years, I was the youngest. When my dad remarried, everything changed. My stepsister and stepbrother joined our family; she was used to being the oldest, and I was used to being the baby. Suddenly, I went from the only child at my dad’s to the oldest in a blended home.
That shift came fast. Responsibility landed on my shoulders before I was ready, forcing me to grow up quickly. It added another layer to the tug-of-war over who I was supposed to be. Caught between expectation and ability, I lived in a cycle of striving and shame.
Psalm 139 reminds me, “Even the darkness is not dark to You.” God saw that little girl — the one trying to do right while trapped between two worlds — and He loved her still.
How a Child Learns to Cope
Years later, through my counseling studies, I discovered that my defiance wasn’t rebellion. It was survival.
Children raised in chaos or inconsistency learn to adapt. The mind creates survival strategies—automatic responses that protect us when life feels unsafe. These behaviors might look like people-pleasing, perfectionism, control, or emotional shutdown. Once, those patterns helped us get by, but later they can block peace and connection.
Faith gives another perspective. We often build survival strategies when we reach for control instead of God. Healing begins when we meet those patterns with compassion and invite Him to transform them into strength and trust.
Different Worlds, Different Coping
At my dad’s, I performed to earn love. Pleasing him became my mission, though I still felt like I fell short.
Things looked different at my mom’s. I cooked, cleaned, and stayed quiet. My efforts to maintain peace often failed, met with guilt or criticism instead of gratitude. No matter the house, I felt like I couldn’t get it right.
When chaos erupted at my mom’s, escape became my defense — flight.
When shouting filled the air, silence took over — freeze.
When I couldn’t run or hide, appeasing everyone seemed safest — fawn.
At my dad’s, my coping looked quieter. Fear of losing love, not rebellion, fueled those choices.
Small lies protected me from disappointment — a subtle form of fight.
Even years later, those patterns lingered. Yet God continued whispering the same truth: “You don’t have to earn love. You already have mine.”
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.” — Isaiah 43:2
The Attachment Tug-of-War
My dad’s home offered security but also pressure. My mom’s home gave freedom but birthed fear. Living between those realities produced what I now know as disorganized attachment — when love and safety feel unpredictable.
Some experience this when one caregiver is both comforting and frightening. Mine came from two opposite definitions of love: one shaped by structure and expectation, the other by chaos and guilt. My heart learned to crave closeness while preparing for disappointment.
Deep down, I wanted to be known and loved, yet I doubted love could last.
Therapy and faith revealed that attachment wounds don’t define the future. With consistent, safe, and loving relationships — and through God’s grace — we can experience earned secure attachment. It’s learning to rest in love instead of striving for it.
Even when my view of love was fractured, God modeled the security my heart longed for through His unwavering presence.
Becoming the Chameleon Child
That tug-of-war shaped everything. I learned to read every room before speaking, to adjust my tone, my words, even my personality to please whoever I was with. Over time, I became a chameleon — visible everywhere yet belonging nowhere.
Adapting became my protection. At my dad’s, I tried to be the achiever but often ended up in trouble. At my mom’s, I chased affection but somehow faded into the background. Each home demanded a different version of me, and the constant switching slowly fractured my sense of self. I could read people effortlessly, but I couldn’t recognize myself.
Motherhood began to change that. When I held my children for the first time, unconditional love finally made sense — the same love my dad once modeled, and the same love God had been offering me all along. That realization began to rebuild me from the inside out.
Now, my identity no longer rests on performance but on belonging.
“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine.” — Isaiah 43:1
When Anxiety Turns to Empathy
Anxiety ruled much of my life. I overthought words, overexplained feelings, and overfunctioned in relationships. The harder I worked, the more I believed love could be earned. Peace always seemed just out of reach.
God rewrote that story. Faith and healing turned my sensitivity — once a burden — into a blessing. What used to make me hypervigilant now helps me recognize quiet needs in others. The awareness that once exhausted me has become discernment.
Now I can sit with someone’s pain without trying to fix it — because I know how it feels when pain goes unseen.
That’s redemption. God never wastes wounds; He transforms them into empathy, compassion, and purpose.
What once fueled anxiety now fuels my calling — to walk with others through the pain He already carried for me.
Healing the Child Within
Healing means learning to reparent myself with grace — caring for my heart the way I needed as a child. This process creates safety inside me, replacing judgment with gentleness and criticism with curiosity. Instead of shaming my fear, I comfort it.
Naming triggers without apology has brought freedom. I remind that younger version of myself she wasn’t bad — she was surviving. Forgiveness has revealed that she was never too much or too broken for God’s love.
New patterns have replaced old ones: setting boundaries without guilt, resting when needed, asking for help, and being honest about my limits. Modeling these truths for my children shows them that love doesn’t vanish when we fail; grace always leaves room to grow.
Letting God father me changed everything. His steady voice reaches the places my parents could not. His love has become the safest home my heart will ever know.
“God is within her, she will not fall.” — Psalm 46:5
Healing remains tender yet transformative. It’s not about erasing the past but walking with God through it. Each time compassion wins over criticism or truth replaces shame, I see His redemption unfold. Nurturing the little girl within has brought peace — the kind that comes from knowing I am fully seen, deeply loved, and finally safe in Him.
A Moment for You
If you grew up in two worlds — torn between rules and chaos, guilt and survival — you’re not alone. Healing doesn’t erase your past; it changes how you carry it. You no longer need to live in survival mode. God meets you even in the places you once protected.
Reflect for a moment:
What roles did you play as a child to stay safe or feel loved?
Which of those roles still follow you today?
How might God invite you to reparent yourself with His grace — to care for your heart as He does?
What would it look like to let Him hold the version of you that tried so hard to be good — and remind you that you already belong to Him?
You are not the mistakes you made while surviving. You are not too far gone. You are loved, seen, and being made whole.
“Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me.” — Psalm 27:10
Disclaimer: This reflection shares my personal story, faith journey, and insights from counseling studies. It is not professional counseling advice or a substitute for mental-health care. If parts of my story resonate with your own, please reach out to a trusted counselor, pastor, or mental-health professional for support.
With grace and light,
Jess
