“The Love That Took Pieces of Me”

People think grandparents are always soft and sweet — all warm hugs, candy jars, and bedtime stories. And sometimes they are. Mine loved me in their own way. They fed me, they made sure I had clothes, they told people they were proud of me. But behind the love, there was something else — something sharper.

Narcissistic love isn’t just affection. It’s control wrapped in kindness. It’s “I love you” followed by “But here’s why you’re not enough.” It’s helping you stand up, only to push you back down so you remember who gave you the hand in the first place.

They praised me when I did what they wanted. They froze me out when I didn’t. If I laughed too loudly, I was “annoying.” If I dressed differently, I was “embarrassing them.” If I shared my dreams, they’d remind me why I’d never reach them. It wasn’t always obvious. There were days they hugged me tight, and days they cooked my favorite meal. But every kindness came with a price — my confidence, my choices, my right to be fully myself.

I grew up thinking love was something you had to earn by shrinking yourself. That being loved meant pleasing someone else at the expense of your own needs. That speaking up meant losing affection. They didn’t destroy me all at once. They took me apart piece by piece — a comment here, a sigh there, a disapproving glance that said more than words ever could. And because they were my grandparents, I thought it was normal. I thought it was love.

But love shouldn’t make you afraid of being yourself. Love shouldn’t make you feel small so someone else can feel big.

I’m still rebuilding myself now, still gluing back the pieces they chipped away at for years. And maybe I’ll never get back everything I lost. But I’ve learned this: the kind of love that tries to control you isn’t really love at all — it’s possession. And I deserve more than that.

"Their love fed me, but it also starved the person I was meant to be."

"Their love felt warm, but it burned me slowly."