When I look back, it’s actually pretty easy for me to say I had a easy and good childhood. Two parents who loved me and pushed me to do my best. Never really got bullied much. No health issues or serious injuries. No abuse of any kind. Up until I was, maybe 15 or 16, if you asked anyone who knew me, including myself, you would’ve been told I had a remarkably bright future ahead of me. Things went a little off the rails after that, and a lot of that was out of my control. But that’s besides the point I’m trying to make here that, while I may complain about this or that about my upbringing, comparatively, I have very little right to.
One thing I’ve found about coming to adulthood without that much baggage, is that I am far more capable of empathy for the suffering of others than I believe I would be otherwise. Not like I have some superpower where I absorb their pain, just that I think I’m more willing to try and help share the burden if it makes it a little easier for someone I care about to get by. I don’t go around asking people to unload their shit on me, but I would never turn them away if I thought I could help. And God knows, talking about it is often the only thing that does.