Growing up with an older brother, I spent a lot of time trying to “keep up.” Who could fly the furthest off the swing or jump the longest distance off the trampoline? You know — real boy stuff. We were adventurous, daring, and, oftentimes, reckless. Our curiosity often came with consequences — a sprain here, a busted head there, and the occasional broken bone (mostly on his end, thankfully not mine).
But here’s something I’ve noticed as I reflect on those childhood memories and my brother’s injuries: no one ever dismissed them by saying to him, “That’s not so bad — I once broke both legs,” or, “You think that’s bad — my friend once broke his neck.” That would’ve been ridiculous, even absurd.
And yet, when it comes to emotional pain, we often do the opposite.
We downplay our own suffering because someone else ‘had it worse’. We reflect on our formative years — roughly ages 8 to 18 — and say things like, “It wasn’t that bad compared to what my dad went through with his father.” We invalidate our own experience by ranking it against someone else's, as if only the most extreme pain is worth acknowledging.
We even bring Scripture into the equation in ways that unintentionally bypass the heartache. Take Romans 8:28: “In all things God works for the good of those who love Him.” It’s a powerful, beautiful truth. I love Romans 8. I love Paul’s Spirit-guided reflections on faith, sin, grace, and the life-giving power of Jesus. But I don’t think this verse — or any verse — was meant to be used to explain away our pain. It wasn’t meant to end the conversation before it starts. I believe it’s meant to point us toward a God who meets us in our pain, not one who tells us to get over it.
Blaming vs. Naming
This isn’t an article about blaming others for the harm done to us. Blame often leads to feelings of powerlessness. It traps us in cycles of resentment and regret. But naming? That’s different.
Naming our wounds is a step toward healing. When we give language to our stories — stories of betrayal, shame, and leaving us with a sense of powerlessness — we begin to loosen their grip on us. Naming is a courageous act that allows us to process our experiences and move through the pain, rather than being bound by it.
And sometimes, the hardest names we have to speak involve the people closest to us — our primary caregivers: parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles — those who raised us and were the most influential in those earlier years of life. Many of us are quick to say, “They did the best they could.” And at times, maybe they did. But maybe that’s something we say to make sense of what we needed but often didn’t receive.
Jesus-follower, psychiatrist, and Interpersonal Neurobiologist Dr. Curt Thompson puts it this way:
“We can grow up in homes in which the food finds the table, the money finds the college funds, and the family even finds the church each Sunday — but somehow our hearts remain undiscovered by the two people we most need to know us: our parents.”
That line stops me in my tracks every time. I want to encourage you to reread this quote — slowly — allowing your mind and body to settle enough that you can truly take in the words and reflect on them with patience: “but somehow our hearts remain undiscovered by our parents.”
I have two boys of my own, and I can assure you there are countless times I haven’t shown up for them the way they needed. I get preoccupied with my own worries or desires, and I miss their signals. I fail to notice. I fail to respond. I can’t help but think of Matthew 7 when Jesus draws the comparison of a father to our Father, “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!”
And if I — someone who loves them deeply and tries hard — still fall short, then surely my parents did too. Not because they didn’t care, but because they’re human. Because they, like all of us, were born into a sinful state and are deeply affected by it.
The Invitation for Curiosity and Beginning to Take Your Story Seriously
Adam Young, Jesus-follower, therapist, and founder of the podcast ‘The Place We Find Ourselves,” has determined that, as children, we needed six things from our parents in order to have what is known as a secure attachment: 1. Attunement. 2. Responsiveness 3. Engagement 4. Ability to Regulate Your Arousal 5. Strong Enough to Handle Strong Emotions (also known as Containment), and 6. A Willingness to Repair. Out of these, I would like to focus on the first two and the last two: Attunement (+ Responsiveness), Containment, and Repair.
I don’t think it’s enough to read through these and think, ‘Ah, that’s a nice concept.’ I think we are being given the opportunity to be curious about our story.
1. Attunement (+ Responsiveness)
My Story Work facilitator, Mike Boland, once gave this example:
At the end of the school day, your mom pulls up for carpool. If she’s attuned, she can read your mood simply by how you carry yourself—slumped shoulders or downcast eyes may signal a hard day. But noticing isn’t enough. She also needs to engage with curiosity, ask open-ended questions, and respond with care and compassion.
2. Containment
Was your heart engaged when you brought those strong emotions to your caregivers? When you became angry, were you met with curiosity about that anger? Or were you met with anger from your mom or dad that ended in a screaming match? Did your anger get you sent to your room to “figure it out” (regulate) and return only when you were calm again? How were your sadness and disappointment handled?
3. Repair
I believe this may be the most important need of all, because even good caregivers sometimes fail you. They may have been attuned and responsive much of the time, yet still missed moments when you needed them most. What mattered then was whether they sought repair—whether they said, “I’m sorry I got angry. That was about me, not you. Will you forgive me?” I see this with my son, Titus. When I own my failures and move toward repair, his heart softens, and our relationship is restored.
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Finally, God is at work in the larger story of Scripture as well as coauthoring our individual stories with us. Will you join me in beginning to take your story seriously? Will you resist minimizing your pain and instead name what is most true about your experience in those early years—asking His Spirit to reveal ways in which your past is playing out in your present life?
I don’t believe healing from the pain of our past will come overnight, but I do believe that this is an important first step in the journey.
If you would like us to learn more about your story, please reach out to us at passion.link/care and submit a care request. We would love to connect you with a counselor or a story work facilitator who is equipped to walk with you as you begin to understand your story, coauthoring it with Jesus.
