I don’t know how many of us struggle with the fear of abandonment, but it’s something I’ve carried with me for as long as I can remember.
To give a bit of context: I grew up in a home that often felt unsettling. My parents were constantly busy with work, and whenever they argued—which was often—my brother and I would be sent to stay with our cousins for indefinite stretches. Most of their conflict stemmed from tension between my mum and her mother-in-law. My grandmother was never happy with my mum, and the fact that I was born a girl—her first grandchild—only gave her another reason to criticise.
As a child, I couldn’t understand how misplaced my grandmother’s hatred was. I internalized it. I believed I was the reason for all the problems. I remember thinking, “If only I hadn’t been born… If I were a boy, maybe my grandmother would have loved my mum. Maybe my parents wouldn’t fight.” I blamed myself for simply existing. Some nights, I would lie in bed crying, terrified that my parents would split up and leave us behind.
Looking back, I wish there had been an adult to help me see the truth—that none of it was my fault, and that despite the chaos, my parents were grateful I existed.
In the midst of all this instability, my mum decided to send me to New Zealand to study. It was meant to be temporary—just two years—but I never went back. After seven years, I moved to Australia to continue my studies and have been living in Melbourne ever since.
From the outside, it looked like a great opportunity—a step forward for my future. But inside, it felt like I was abandoned. I was alone, thousands of miles from home, with little contact. Back then, international calls between Korea and New Zealand were expensive, and I was allowed maybe ten minutes to talk to them once a week. There were days I desperately craved parental love—a hug after a hard day, someone to cry to without guilt. But I told myself to shut up. I told myself I was being too sensitive, maybe even ungrateful. I felt guilty for feeling lonely. I told myself I didn’t deserve to feel this way, especially considering the financial sacrifices they were making.
I thought, If I go back home, I’ll only disappoint them. So I forced myself to stay. I told myself I had a purpose—to succeed and make them proud.
As I got older, resentment toward my parents began to grow. But so did my understanding. I started to see the bigger picture—why they worked so much, why my mum insisted I study abroad, why my grandmother acted the way she did. I believed that understanding would make the pain disappear, that it would somehow invalidate my loneliness, my sense of being unwanted.
But no matter how much I rationalised, the sadness stayed. It felt like dragging around a heavy bag I couldn’t put down.
That’s when I decided to see a therapist. Through those sessions, I realised I had spent most of my life invalidating my own emotions. I’ll never forget the day my therapist said, “I can see how that could have made you feel lonely.”Something cracked open inside me. For the first time, I felt seen.
All I had ever wanted was for someone—anyone—to acknowledge that my pain was real. That I wasn’t weird, overly sensitive, or ungrateful. That I wasn’t broken.
After years of blaming myself, it finally didn’t feel like a lie when a stranger looked me in the eyes and said, “I understand.” That’s when I realised: this was what I needed to learn to do for myself all along.
Now, I’m more aware of how deeply that fear still lives in me. It sneaks into my relationships—into the moments when I react from a place of old pain, desperate to be validated, desperate to be loved. Sometimes, even now, I judge myself for it. I hear a familiar voice saying, “Get over it. Others have been through so much worse. You should just be grateful for what you have.”
And maybe there’s some truth in that. There are people who have experienced far more trauma than I have. But I’m learning that comparison was never the point.
This is simply my story. A story of a child who felt lonely, and an adult who can finally understand why. The pain doesn’t disappear just because it makes sense—but it softens when it’s allowed to exist. And maybe that’s enough.
