It was my deeply held obsession with validation that made me believe that sometimes it is hard to say no. Childhood trauma began as a series of insignificant moments that, overtime, shredded into strong layers of self-doubt and fear. While it might not be entirely fair to attribute all my struggles with saying no to these childhood experiences—especially after receiving counsel from friends or self-proclaimed therapists—there’s no denying that, since then, I’ve internalized the belief that saying yes is a mark of virtue, one I should always strive to embody. At that time, I have learned that saying yes was a daily effort to choose not to be rebellious, that saying yes is reminding the society I still align with their belief system, assuring them that there would never be a day I chose myself first. I know this experience, and I have lived it.
The issue is that I can’t quite recall how these experiences shaped me, how they subtly twisted and molded my choices into something unclear and distorted. The memories I can’t fully grasp feel like elusive shadows—dark, indistinct, and lacking any clear traces to anchor them. These shadows don’t leave a mark; they merely hint at a presence, as if something existed in that space, but it remains intangible. If you ask how this connects to my difficulty in saying no, I would say that my childhood is like those shadows—faint, hard to define, and offering only the briefest sense of confirmation. They tell me, at best, that they were there, but I still struggle to understand how they affect me now.
My struggles aren’t solid. They are not firm. They aren’t sketchy or vague. Instead, they are lived experiences that have been overly internalized and incorporated into my daily living. The way I folded when I got scolded for being expressive outside the home. The gentle yet stern look my mother gave when I had food preferences or I chose anything for myself. Subtle dismissal of my abuse stories, implying I should not be proud to talk about one. I can assume that they were lived experiences because why would I have absorbed them? But I also can’t imagine it because my mind doesn’t understand why they molded me that way.
I remember being constantly deprived of going out with my mother because, unlike my twin sister, I wouldn’t cry for staying with my stepmom. I would watch my mother leave in the morning with my twin sister and return late in the evening. “She remains calm.” My stepmother remarked. Even when you take her twin sister with you, she remains stiff, just watching you go.” “She’s like a statue,” she concluded. I wasn’t being statuesque; rather, I was simply practicing the act of being considerate—prioritizing my twin sister’s wishes and pleasing my mother at the age of four.
I remember my cousin, audacious and always wanting to control. The fierceness in her face the day she insisted I call her Aunty because she was a few days older. I was seven years old, just beginning to know the difference between family and friends. I knew I was old enough to choose my friends and to understand that being a family didn’t make her my friend.
There was a time when it felt like a stranger lurked in every dark corner of our house. My heart would leap into my throat every night as the clock struck 9:00. Even in the daytime, being alone in a room was unsettling. As I walked around, I would stare and blink at the blurry images on the walls. They looked grotesque—some crawling, some stiff like a statue. This experience became even scarier as it molded a fear in me that deadened my confidence, making it hard to say no. It was the first time I lost myself to fear, realizing it had betrayed me and taken away my confidence. Like the stranger in every corner of our house, fear took hold of me, making me unable to confront anyone.
I remember my school teacher and how I had a cold foot on the day I presented in class. My confidence had slipped away, and it felt natural to be drenched in fear even as I pushed the sensation away. I hesitated to present, wanting to convince the group members to choose someone else. One of them looked at me and reassured me that I would handle it well. “We will at least stand next to you,” she said. I was stupefied at how naturally the words flew into me, and the solid nods from everyone in the group fortified my confidence.
I took my hands out of my pockets and made my way to the front. My teammate followed. I tried my best, read between the lines, and—not to forget—I twitched until a yell pierced the air from the deserted corner of the class. “Why would you let her speak when this group has other strong speakers?” Her words were true—I wasn’t a strong speaker. Why had they chosen me?
My teacher echoed again, pointing to the vocal student in my group. I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t rehearsed my speech because I wasn’t told we should, that I wrote the essay alone, and that nobody in the group, not even the strong speakers, contributed, but I couldn’t. She did not care. So, I swallowed my words and walked to my seat in shame.
I feel these lived experiences have become ingrained patterns. First, they have shaped my self-confidence into something I did not understand. The constant belief that my choices and preferences should not be a priority has left me thinking I am undeserving of autonomy. I could be wrong, but all I know is that I now live to make people stay with me or maybe to make them think of me as a very considerate person. Second, striving through these experiences to become selfless, perhaps a considerate person, I have become selfish. My daily effort to be seen as considerate has ingrained a pattern where my every action seeks validation from people. Instead of being tenacious with my selflessness, I became flexible as I searched for approval, constantly stuck between genuine kindness and fear of being left alone.
I realize that I have raised what may be seen as a contradiction in the two statements mentioned above. First, I mentioned how these lived experiences have shaped my self-confidence into something I did not understand. Now I am saying I have become selfish by being considerate. Well, I am emphasizing two different problems. One is insecurity; the other is altruistic self-deception. The first is a concept of questioning my capabilities; the second is a concept of how selflessness stems from people’s validation, perhaps being pretentious with my selflessness.
In terms of insecurity, there is no excuse for losing my autonomy because of the fear of abandonment. If I consistently prioritize other people’s choices over my own well-being, I am diminishing my self-worth and my ability to set boundaries. As adulthood is concerned, it is very important to understand that my own values do not depend on people’s acceptance. I do not need to align with any social belief system if it seems to contradict my conviction or personal development. I do not need societal validation in my course of action.
Sometimes when I think about how these childhood experiences have robbed me of my self-worth, I become both angry and worried. I am angry that these experiences have robbed me of my autonomy, that they made me live in my shadows. I am angry that these ingrained insecurities might affect my future decisions, or perhaps could continue to make it challenging to build a positive self-image. At the same time, I worry that my anger is not enough to overcome how deeply I have internalized these childhood experiences.
English 
Swahili
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