I don’t know how many of us struggle with the fear of abandonment, but it’s something I’ve been fighting for a long time.
To give a bit of context: I grew up in a home that felt unsettling. My parents were constantly occupied with work, and whenever they argued—which was often—my brother and I were sent to stay with our cousins for indefinite periods. Most of their conflicts stemmed from the tension between my mum and her mother-in-law. My grandmother was never happy with my mum, and having a daughter as her first child only gave her another reason to criticize her.
As a child, I couldn’t see how unreasonable my grandmother’s hatred was. Instead, I blamed myself for simply existing. I remember thinking, “If only I hadn’t been born... if I were a boy, maybe my grandmother would’ve loved my mum. Maybe my parents wouldn’t fight.”
Caught between emotionally absent parents and constant arguments, I grew up feeling unsafe, alone, and deeply afraid. I would cry, terrified that my parents would get divorced and leave us behind.
Then came the decision 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 there, I moved to Australia to continue my studies. On the outside, it looked like a great opportunity. On the inside, I felt like I had finally been abandoned.
Back then, international calls between Korea and New Zealand were expensive, and connecting was difficult. Sometimes I only spoke to my parents for ten minutes a week—or exchanged the occasional email. They couldn’t find time to visit, and I convinced myself that was okay. I believed I was just being overly sensitive, maybe even ungrateful. I felt guilty for being lonely. I told myself I didn’t deserve to feel this way, especially after all the money they were spending. I thought if I ever went back home, I’d only be disappointing them.
I lived with my aunty in New Zealand, and she was kind—but I always felt like a guest. Not because she treated me poorly, but because deep down, I didn’t feel like I belonged. I believed I had to earn my place, be useful, behave perfectly. I craved the kind of parental comfort I couldn’t find—someone I could go to for a hug after a hard day, someone I could cry to without guilt. I tried to tell my parents how I felt, but they’d dismiss it, saying I was being ungrateful.
Growing up away from my family left me with this persistent feeling of emptiness. I always felt unsettled, as if I were floating between places, never fully grounded.
Over time, resentment began to build—especially toward my mum, who had suggested the move overseas. She said it was better for my future, and maybe it was. But I wished she could have seen how lonely I was.
As I got older, I began to understand the bigger picture: why my parents worked so much, why my mum pushed for me to study abroad, why my grandmother acted the way she did. I came to realize that none of it had anything to do with me. But even with that awareness, it still felt like I was dragging around this heavy bag of sadness—something I couldn’t quite put down.
That’s when I decided to see a therapist. Through those sessions, I realized that I had spent my whole life invalidating my own feelings. I remember the moment my therapist said, “I can see how that could have made you feel lonely.” For the first time, I felt seen. Someone was finally on my side.
In my head, I’d always told myself, “Yeah, I was lonely, but my parents didn’t mean to hurt me, so I should just get over it.” But the truth is, intention doesn’t erase impact. My parents may have done their best, but their best wasn’t enough. Every child deserves love and attention—and I didn’t get that. So I blamed myself. I convinced myself that something must be wrong with me to be treated that way.
Even now, that belief is deeply rooted. It sneaks into my life in quiet, unexpected ways. Sometimes, it surfaces when my partner casually says something like, “I want to move to Europe to study.” Part of me is excited for him—but another part is terrified. Terrified that he’ll leave me, just like I’ve always feared. I start to wonder if he’ll find someone smarter, prettier, more lovable—anyone but me.
These thoughts bring up shame. I hate feeling so desperate. I get frustrated, especially when I think I’ve already “figured it all out” and yet still find myself reacting out of pain. I hate hurting the people I love.
But I’m learning that this is where self-love matters most. Because no one else knows my pain the way I do. No one else lived my story. And while it’s messy and frustrating, it’s also a process. I show up for myself every day, even when it’s hard—because I believe in the possibility of healing.
I dream of the day when I’ll finally be free. Free to love myself completely. Free to love others without fear. And until then, I’ll keep doing the work.
