Learning to Matter After Being Overlooked

From silencing your inner world to realizing you truly matter

Many people who seem capable and steady on the outside carry something quieter underneath: the sense that what they feel or need doesn’t really matter. They move through the world taking care of things, showing up for others, keeping everything together. And yet inside, there is often a familiar pattern of pushing down their own feelings and minimizing their needs so they don’t take up space.

For many, this begins early. A moment from my childhood comes to mind.

When I was in second grade in Japan, my parents took me to an orthodontist because my front teeth were slightly crooked. I was too young to understand what was happening or to speak up for myself. Without explanation, he removed four of my permanent teeth—two on top and two on the bottom. I remember the shock: the pain, the bleeding, the crying, the fear of not knowing why this was happening.

My parents were horrified and furious with him and pulled me out immediately. But what stays with me most is the car ride home. I was in the back seat, inconsolable, my mouth aching, my small body trembling. My parents were clearly distressed—I remember my dad yelling the entire drive—but in all that intensity, no one turned toward me. No one comforted me or asked how I was doing. I was hurting and frightened, and I was alone with it.

This moment wasn’t an exception. It reflected something familiar from my childhood. When I was overwhelmed or in pain, there often wasn’t room for my feelings or needs. Over time, I learned to quiet them and hold things in on my own, because it felt safer than reaching out and finding no one there.

There was no follow-up with another orthodontist or dentist after that. As I grew older, my teeth continued to shift, and the spaces where the teeth had been removed closed in too much, leaving very little room for my tongue. When I was a teenager, I got braces again, and for a while it felt like the issue had been resolved. But in adulthood, the problems resurfaced. I found myself biting my tongue often and living with ongoing discomfort in my jaw, becoming more aware of how it affected the structure of my face and my sense of self. I sought professional help, but there was no clear solution. What needed attention early on was left unaddressed, and the impact stayed with me for decades.

A few months ago, I shared all of this with my mom—the years of discomfort, frustration, self-consciousness, and how distressing it has been for me. For the first time, I was genuinely vulnerable about how long this has affected me and how painful it has been. In the middle of my sharing, she said, “You have no idea how much I cried over this.”

Her feelings came into the space where mine were trying to be heard. I could see the guilt and sadness wash over her. But this time, I didn’t disappear. I said, “Mom, I’m talking about me right now—about what I’ve been going through all these years and how painful it has been for me.” I felt the familiar pull to take care of her emotions, but I didn’t go there. Even though her response interrupted my sharing, I stayed with myself. She looked surprised, grew quiet, and then she listened. It wasn’t dramatic, but it mattered—a quiet sign of how much I’ve grown.

There is a cost to living in a way where your own feelings and needs have no room.

When you spend your life taking care of everyone else, something inside you begins to go quiet. You may not even know what your needs are, because you never had the freedom to feel them. You keep going because you have to, and the weight grows heavy. Sometimes you want to run away, yet you feel trapped by the responsibilities you’ve carried for so long. Gradually, parts of you begin to shut down.

You shut down because it feels too painful to face the reality of not being cared for, of feeling like you don’t matter. But shutting down doesn’t protect you for long. It only deepens the isolation and makes the loneliness heavier.

This is often where the deepest pain lives: in the aloneness, in holding everything yourself, in not knowing who you can turn to, and in the quiet belief that you don’t matter enough for anyone to care. Opening up can feel frightening when you’ve spent a lifetime keeping everything inside.

Healing doesn’t come from suddenly opening everything up. It begins slowly, by testing the waters in small, manageable ways—only as much as feels safe. You notice what it’s like to let someone in just a little, and you pay attention to how it feels inside.

For me, it began with a therapist who stayed present with my feelings. Over time, I also found people who genuinely wanted to know me, who cared about how I was doing, and who didn’t need me to take care of them. As I grew, my relationships began to shift into places where I didn’t have to shrink or disappear. Places where there was space for me too. That’s how old patterns loosen—through steady relationships where something new can unfold.

If you grew up without room for your own feelings or needs, it makes sense that caring for yourself feels unfamiliar. There is nothing wrong with you. You adapted to what life asked of you.

And slowly, in your own time, you can come to understand that you matter—not because of what you do, but simply because of who you are.

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If parts of this story resonate with you, I hope it offers a little gentleness toward your own experience. No one is meant to hold everything alone. Healing often begins slowly — in the presence of someone who can listen, stay with you, and make room for what you feel. You deserve that kind of steadiness and care.

I’m Iihae Shin, LMFT, a Pasadena-based therapist offering online therapy across California for high-functioning adults who struggle with anxiety, perfectionism, and feeling unseen, using a relational, body-based approach to support emotional healing and self-worth.