I know how absurd that title sounds. Please don’t read this with contempt—I’m not seeking sympathy for privilege. I’m trying to voice something I’ve never shared publicly: wealth resolved many things, but it fractured others, and I genuinely don’t know how to mend those pieces alone.
I was raised in a sprawling home with my parents and a team of staff. My parents, well-meaning but emotionally distant, believed every challenge could be addressed with money or delegation. If I struggled, they assigned someone to “handle it.” That person was rarely emotionally present and often defaulted to shortcuts: coercion or shame.
At eight, I sat at the table for two hours, forced to eat an orange. I stared at it until I felt smaller than the fruit itself, then finally choked it down. I haven’t touched a plain orange since.
At fourteen, I tried to follow a recipe card while two adults hovered. Every pause was met with correction, tools snatched from my hands, and sighs of “you’re doing it wrong.” The soup turned out flawless. I couldn’t bear to look at it. Cooking still triggers that same shame spiral.
Now I’m in my late twenties. On paper, I’m a functioning adult. Privately, I freeze at the stove. I can make toast and pasta, but basic etiquette makes me brace for reprimand.
I know how disconnected this sounds. I’m not asking anyone to pity wealth. I’m trying to explain the strange void it leaves: I can lead meetings and sign contracts, yet I panic at a burner because my brain expects scolding.
It spills into other areas. I get genuinely frightened by gentle films. I cried during a U-rated animated movie and now need warnings before emotional scenes. I own too many plushies and sleep with one most nights. Friends tease that I’m “mentally eight.” Sometimes it doesn’t feel like teasing—it feels like I mask all day and only unmask when I’m safe.
I’ve taken classes, watched tutorials, read recipes. But the moment I fumble an egg or slice unevenly, that old humiliation flares up like a fire alarm. I want to abandon everything.
What I long for (and I hate how clingy this sounds): patient companionship for cozy, everyday life. People who won’t scoff when I ask “which burner?” Who’ll let me stir awkwardly and celebrate that I’m trying. Someone who’ll sit beside me while I attempt an orange again. Kindness over precision.
If you’ve read this far, I have a few practical questions: How do I ask my current friends for help without making it awkward or burdensome? Any respectful scripts? Has anyone overcome food shame as an adult? What truly helped? Are there beginner wins that feel empowering, not infantilizing? And for movie anxiety—any grounding techniques that don’t feel childish? (I currently use breathing and a phone game.)
TLDR: I grew up with wealth and staff, but was shamed around basic life skills. Now I’m a capable “adult” who freezes at cooking and cries at children’s films. I’m not asking for pity—I’m asking for gentle help with small, ordinary things. For kindness toward the eight-year-old still inside me.
