Words Unspoken

This piece is difficult to write, but it comes from a place of deep vulnerability. My parents, both survivors of genocide, didn’t know how to be emotionally present with us in the ways many people take for granted. They were still in survival mode. In our home, words of affirmation were rare. Even “I love you” was something you said only on certain occasions—if at all. I grew up thinking that was normal.

It wasn’t until adulthood that I began to see how different my upbringing had been. My American-born friends tossed around those three words with ease. Sometimes it made me uncomfortable, especially when friends of the same gender said “I love you.” It felt unfamiliar, almost foreign. With time, I learned that it was simply another cultural difference.

As I connected with more Rwandan adults, I realized many of them grew up the same way. It wasn’t just my family; it was a generational pattern shaped by trauma and survival.

At twenty-seven, I decided to begin breaking that pattern. I started saying “I love you” to my parents more often. At first it felt awkward and unnatural. But now it flows easily, a small act of healing that once felt impossible.

“I love you.”
Three simple words, opening a door back to the heart.