We’re Building Beliefs on Broken Bones, and It’s Costing Us

No one screams during a foot rub. You close your eyes and smile in unbridled ecstasy, because you’ve given yourself the softness and the warm comfort of being tended to. 

But amputate a toe without anaesthesia, and you will scream loud enough to shake the sky. Pain is not attuned to the culture of silence. It will always claw its way out of your throat.

In many ways, people who grow up in loveless homes are stuck in that second scenario. They are walking around with raw and unbandaged phantom wounds. 

Their lives are one lengthy, unmedicated procedure. Their screams are a pulsing medley of suspicion, cynicism, resentment, withdrawal, and rage that doesn’t know where to land. 

Every outburst is their body’s way of saying: something hurts here.

Pain is supposed to alert us to what needs healing. But when you take their screams and turn them into your doctrine, shaping your worldview around the noise of their wounds, you are becoming wounded by proxy.

We must learn not to canonise or enshrine the loudness of lovelessness as truth. Otherwise, we will end up building entire theologies around broken bones.

And here’s the tragedy: the people who know love—deep, anchoring, healing love—often whisper. They’ve been so nurtured by stability that they don’t know how to contend with the microphone of chaos. They underestimate the power of their peace because it doesn’t echo. But silence is not the same as insignificance. Their stories matter. Their marriages matter. Their homes matter.

The internet is filled with horror stories of manipulative mothers, absentee fathers, toxic partners, and hollow homes. The algorithm favors agony. And in that din, a dangerous narrative takes root: that love is a myth and marriage is a graveyard.

But what if the truth is under-told?

We need the loved ones to speak, not to argue with the broken but to anchor the wandering, to show that wholeness exists and that it’s not a fluke, that gentleness can thrive, that marriage can be a safe house, not a war zone, that not every love ends in ruin.

If pain gets to publish without pause and love remains unpublished, the next generation will inherit fear as fact.

Let the healed speak, let the loved ones speak, let the quiet strength of functional homes and thriving unions rise, not in rebuttal, but in remembrance, that beauty, too, has a voice.