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Unlearning Toxic Love: A First-Gen Latina’s Inner Child Healing Journey

Growing up, the messages of love were often mixed, the actions often painful, and yet we were told that it all came from love. En muchas casas Latinas—including mine—emotions were shown, but rarely said out loud. You might get a plate of fruta after an argument, but never an apology. You’d hear “te estoy corrigiendo porque te quiero” after getting yelled at or hit, and that was supposed to mean you were loved.

So many of us grew up with skewed ideas of love—where cariño looked like control, keeping quiet to keep the peace, being obedient, respectful. And never question their decisions or raise your voice. This post is about sanando esa idea distorsionada de lo que era amor and rewriting my own definition that feels safe.

The Culture Blueprint I Inherited

In many Latinx households—including mine—parenting is deeply shaped by cultural values like respeto and familismo. Children are expected to show obedience and deference to adults, especially parents and elders.

From a young age, we’re taught which parts of ourselves are acceptable, and which ones are shamed. You’re expected to be strong, but not outspoken. Giving, but not demanding. Grateful—because “otros lo tienen peor.”

Anything too emotional, too boundary-setting, or too loud got labeled as malcriada, exagerada, or dramática. So, like many niñas, I tucked those parts of me away.

In our culture, especially among older generations, physical punishment is seen as necessary part of pareting to raise respectful children. If I stepped out of line that was how I was “corrected”

I understand that these methods are often rooted in survival. Passed down from generation to generation, based on the belief that tough love builds strength.

But from a trauma-informed lens, we now have the evidence that shows physical punishment is profoundly harmful to a child’s emotional and psychological development. You’ve been one done with good intentions, it can leave behind emotional wounds that fracture our sense of safety—both as children and as adults.

I don’t share this to place blame. I know my parents were doing what they were taught—repeating the only version of love they knew. What they thought would keep me strong, safe, and prepared for a world that isn’t kind.

They didn’t have the tools to love themselves gently, let alone raise a child with that kind of tenderness. I can hold compassion for that. But compassion doesn’t erase the impact.

It is dangerous to grow up believing that love should make you feel scared, small, or silent. That love and pain go together.

What Love Looked Like Growing Up

Even when I tried to express that I was hurting. I was met with silence, shame, or defensiveness. So I stopped speaking up, and I learned how to shut myself down before anyone else could. It has taken me years to accept my feelings and try to unlearn the idea that my pain was too inconvenient to be seen.

I was told “es por tu bien” and “te estoy corrigiendo porque te quiero.” I never heard and “I’m sorry“. There were no apologies, no acknowledgment, just silence, maybe a plate of fruit left for me in my room and then everything went back to normal like nothing happened.

I learned not to ask questions.
Not to cry too much.
Not to say no.

I was taught to keep the peace, carry the family’s expectations, and never embarrass anyone. This was how you raise a good daughter. This was what I was told love looked like.

I confused being needed with being valued. I thought love meant doing everything for everyone else while asking for nothing in return. I kept my pain to myself, thinking it would make me easier to love. I felt like I had to constantly prove my worth—explaining, justifying, shrinking.

Unlearning the Love That Hurt Me (and Breaking the Cycle with Compassion)

There was a time when I believed love had to be earned.

So I stayed in spaces—friendships, family dynamics, relationships—that chipped away at me, piece by piece.
I became whatever people needed me to be: quiet, agreeable, low-maintenance, forgiving.

If they needed softness, I gave softness.
If they needed silence, I swallowed my voice.
If they needed someone to blame, I took the fall.

When people started pulling away, I tried harder. I bent over backwards to prove I was worth staying for. I gave more love, more patience, more silence—hoping it would be enough.

So I tried.
And tried.
And tried—until there was nothing left of me but fragments.

And even then, I still called it love.
But it wasn’t love. It was survival. It was fear.
It was my inner niña doing whatever she could to not be left behind again.

I spent almost four years in a toxic, manipulative, and physically abusive relationship.
It wasn’t just emotional wounds—it was bruises, fear, and walking on eggshells every single day.
And still, I stayed.

When my family eventually found out, they would ask me, “Why would you stay with someone who would hurt you like that?”
And I didn’t know how to explain it.

But the truth is—I stayed because I thought love could hurt. I couldn’t see the red flags until it was too late. I had been taught to tolerate, stay quiet and endure. So when love felt heavy, confusing, or unsafe, I didn’t question it. I just did what I had always done—swallowed my voice and believed that it was love.

What Real Love Feels Like Now

These days, love feels like being scared and uncertain—but still holding on to hope. It doesn’t make me raise my voice to be heard.
It doesn’t punish me for having feelings or call me dramatic when I cry.
It doesn’t disappear when things get hard.

Now, real love means being gentle with myself, even when I don’t feel like I deserve it. It means accepting where I am, not where I think I should be.

It looks like giving myself softness instead of silence.
Like resting when I’m tired instead of pushing through to prove I’m strong.
Like saying no without guilt, and yes with intention.

Real love stays, Real love softens. Real love doesn’t ask me to shrink. Most importantly

Real love creates safety—so my inner niña doesn’t have to brace for abandonment anymore.

So she can begin to believe she’s allowed to rest.
That she’s safe now.
That she’s worthy.

Florecer Through The Unlearning

I’m still healing. Every day.
Some days are lighter.
Some days still ache in places I thought I had already patched up.

But I’m learning to love myself—for my inner niña, and for mis rayitos de sol, my reasons for choosing to break the cycle. They are my daily reminder that love can be soft.

Their love is the purest love I’ve ever known.
Becoming a mom cracked something open in me.
It was the first time I felt a kind of love that wasn’t conditional, performative, or painful. That love began to mend a part of the void I carried from growing up without emotional safety.

I didn’t grow up seeing people love themselves out loud.
I didn’t see people rest without guilt.
I didn’t see them talk about their feelings honestly or say, “I’m struggling and I need help.”

Now I realize—it’s one thing to tell my children that gentleness, rest, and emotional honesty matter.
But those words mean nothing if I don’t live them.

I am learning to love myself so I can model the love I want them to believe in—
The kind that doesn’t require shrinking or sacrificing yourself to belong.
The kind that lets them see a mom who makes mistakes, apologizes, rests, and still chooses herself.

This blog, this space—Florecer Latinx—is part of that journey.
Not because I have all the answers or because I’ve fully healed,
but because I’m learning to bloom, even in the chaos.

And I want to show others that it’s okay to heal slowly, imperfectly, and in community.

I don’t share my wounds for attention or sympathy.
I share them because if even one person reads this and feels seen—
If it helps someone realize they’re not alone—
Then maybe it gives them the courage to speak up.
To begin healing.
To break the cycle, too.

We don’t have to get it all right.
We just have to keep choosing love—the real kind.
The kind that starts within.

If that someone is you, I invite you to take a breath—and reflect below.

I don’t share my wounds for attention—I share them so someone else feels less alone. So maybe they find the strength to break the cycle too.”