The First Step Is Naming It

Because you can’t heal what you won’t acknowledge.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about healing. Not the kind you post inspirational quotes about, or the kind that wraps itself up in a tidy timeline—but the kind that starts in silence. In stillness. In truth.

People say healing begins when you acknowledge what you’re going through. And that’s true. But I think it actually begins earlier—when you finally acknowledge what you’ve been through. When you stop minimizing it. Stop rewriting it. Stop pretending it didn’t shape you.

So here I am, trying to tell the truth. Or at least, the parts I’m ready to share.

I come from a blended, immigrant family. My parents are from Mexico. I’m second-generation, one of seven kids. If that already sounds like a lot—it was. I was technically a middle child, but the oldest in my parents' marriage. Which meant I often lived in the tension of being both invisible and overly responsible.

I was neglected in some ways, but held to impossible standards in others. I learned early that if I wanted attention, I had to earn it. I had to be impressive. I had to prove I was worthy.

So I became an overachiever.

To this day, I don’t feel at ease unless I’m working toward something. If I’m not checking off a to-do list, setting goals, or chasing the next accomplishment, I start to spiral. Rest feels unsafe. Unfamiliar. Like a luxury I haven’t earned. And only recently—at 29—have I realized that this isn’t just who I am. It’s a trauma response. A pattern. A survival mechanism I built to feel seen.

It comes from a younger version of me, quietly hoping:

Maybe if I do enough… someone will finally notice.

I think of myself as a child, sitting at a desk after school, doing my homework. No one ever had to ask. No one ever helped. I just did it—every day—hoping that being good and quiet and capable would be enough. Hoping it might earn me a little praise. A little love. A little peace.

And that’s what I’m unlearning.

What makes this even harder to unpack is that, on paper, my life looks like a success story. I grew up in an upper-class family, in a nice neighborhood. I went to a top school in Orange County, graduated from a UC, and have worked for Fortune 500 companies. I’ve built a solid, impressive career. From the outside, everything looks polished. Like I had it all together.

But none of that shows the reality of what I’ve emotionally survived.

Most people don’t know this about me. I don’t often talk about my childhood—not because I’m ashamed, but because I’m still untangling it. Still deciding what parts I want to share. Still learning how to hold those memories without letting them consume me.

Sometimes, little truths spill out in conversation. A quiet memory here. A glimpse there. And I think it surprises people. From the outside, it looks like I grew up stable, comfortable—even privileged. But none of that reflects the parts of me that are still healing.

And there’s more I’m not ready to share. Things I may never say out loud.

But I’m here. I’m healing. I’m trying to make peace with the girl who thought she had to earn love by being perfect. I’m trying to rest without guilt. I’m learning that being worthy isn’t something you prove—it’s something you remember.

So maybe this is the beginning.

The first step.

The naming of it.

Because you can’t move forward without facing where you’ve been.