Nobody told you this when you were growing up. And nobody's telling you now. So I will. If your childhood was rough, and by rough I don't mean movie-rough, I mean the quiet kind, the kind where your needs were too big for the room, the kind where your feelings were met with irritation instead of comfort, the kind where you learned very early that the world wasn't going to meet you where you were so you better figure out how to meet it where it is. If that was your childhood. Then you are walking around with a reduced capacity to feel good. I don't mean that metaphorically. I mean neurologically. Your system was built in an environment that wasn't safe. And a system built in an unsafe environment doesn't just carry memories of unsafety. It carries the architecture of unsafety. The wiring. The defaults. The automatic settings that run underneath every experience you have as an adult. Including the good ones. Especially the good ones. And this is the part that nobody talks about because it sounds counterintuitive and it's true. Traumatized people don't just struggle with pain. They struggle with joy. They struggle with good. They struggle with the moments that are supposed to feel safe and happy and warm and connected because those moments activate something most people wouldn't expect. Fear. Not fear of the good thing. Fear of losing the good thing. Because if your childhood taught you anything, it taught you that good doesn't last. That warmth disappears without warning. That the thing you depend on can be taken. That the person you need can change, leave, shut down, turn cold, or simply stop being available in the space between breakfast and dinner. Your childhood taught your body that love is temporary. And your body never unlearned that lesson. So now you're an adult. And you fall in love. And the love is real. And the person is real. And the connection is deep. And your heart opens in a way it hasn't opened since you were small enough to not know any better.