It was a Sunday afternoon, the kind where the house is full of voices, clinking plates, and the smell of chapati and beef stew drifting in from the kitchen. We were all gathered in the living room, mid-laughter, when one of my older relatives looked at me and said with a smile, “So… when are we hearing wedding bells?” The room went quiet for half a second, waiting for my playful answer. But instead, I felt heat rise in my chest. My jaw tightened. And before I could stop myself, I said, “Is that really all you see when you look at me?” The laughter died. Someone shifted uncomfortably. Another person coughed into their tea. They weren’t expecting that. To them, it was just a harmless question — a little family banter. But to me, it was a reminder of years of being measured against a life timeline I never chose. It dragged up memories of relationships that ended in heartbreak, choices no one understood, and quiet disappointments I’ve carried alone. They thought they were making conversation. I heard a judgment on my worth. And that’s the thing about triggers — the world sees the moment, but you feel the whole history.

A trigger is rarely about the present alone. It’s the past — all the disappointments, shaming, or unmet needs — rushing forward and colliding with now. In my case, that single question carried the expectation that marriage is the ultimate proof of success, the silent assumption that my current joy or achievements aren’t enough, and the reminder of times I felt unseen or undervalued. The hardest part about moments like this is that your body reacts before you have time to think. You feel the breath quicken, the heat in your face, the tightening in your chest. These are the warning signs your nervous system has moved into defense mode, and unless you catch them, your next words will come from a place of hurt rather than grounded truth.

In that moment, I didn’t pause to anchor myself. If I had, maybe I would have taken a slow breath, planted my feet on the ground, and reminded myself, “I’m safe. I can choose my words.” That pause doesn’t mean denying the hurt. It means giving yourself enough space to decide how you want to show up for yourself. Because when you respond from the wound, you often speak for your inner child in a way that alienates others. But when you respond as the adult who is protecting her, you can still express your truth without abandoning your relationships. It’s the difference between lashing out and calmly saying, “I know that’s a common question, but I’d rather not discuss my personal life right now.” Both protect you, but one keeps you in the room while the other pushes everyone away.

In cultures where family is close-knit and boundaries aren’t always respected, holding your ground without being seen as “too sensitive” can be tricky. But you have a choice every time. You can stay silent and abandon yourself. You can explode and regret your words. Or you can respond in a way that both honours your truth and protects your peace. And if you do react more sharply than intended, you can still repair the moment — not just with others, but with yourself. Tell your inner child, “I see why you reacted that way. I’m not angry at you. I’m here now.” Reflect on what you truly needed in that moment so that next time, you can meet that need before the trigger takes over.

The real work is in staying with yourself when your nervous system wants to run or attack. And after moments like these, it helps to reconnect — write down what you felt, validate your own experience before seeking anyone else’s approval, and then do something that brings you back to safety and joy. Because every time you stay with yourself through a trigger, you’re rewriting your story. You’re proving to the younger you that no matter what the room expects, no matter what the question is, you will not walk out on her again. That is emotional intelligence in action. That is how you hold space for your inner child. That is how you break the cycle.

With Love

Lydiah