The Summer I Learned to Hold Back My Love

My cousin sister came running towards me at our ancestral temple festival. But the night before, I had been told not to get too close.

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The temple bells were ringing, and my cousins were running towards me. For the first time in my life, I did not know whether I was allowed to be happy to see them.

Every May, our ancestral temple came alive. Uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents, and distant relatives returned to the village for prayers and rituals. The temple courtyard filled with familiar voices, children’s laughter, and the fragrance of food being prepared for the pooja.

As a child, I waited for those days with a happiness I could barely contain. Summer itself felt like freedom, especially after my tenth-standard examinations, but the temple festival made it magical.

My grandfather’s garden was another world altogether. We ate more fresh groundnuts than I could count and spent hours playing near the pump set. Bathing beneath that rushing water felt like the greatest adventure summer could offer. We did not need expensive holidays or elaborate entertainment; the garden, the water, my cousins, and the freedom to play were enough. Every summer carried the promise of more, more laughter, more mischief, and more carefree days at the temple.

In the evenings, we walked to the temple and prayed together. The bells echoed through the street, as if reminding every part of our family that we all came from the same roots. After prayers, we went to a small idli shop for dinner. I still remember the steam rising from the hot idlis and the rich smell of sambar. The place was simple, but those meals felt like a feast because everyone was together.

We would go home and sit out together, sharing memories, family gossip, and spiritual stories. Then we went to sleep, looking forward to the next morning’s grand puja, the Pongal, and rituals like Mulaipari. The festival wasn’t merely something we attended; we felt it in the temple bells, the shared food, the pump-set water, the laughter, and the quiet certainty that I belonged.

But one particular summer, something changed.

There was a dispute between my parents and my uncle’s family. Both sides were hurt, but I was too young to know what had started it. I didn’t understand who said what, who was hurt first, or how things got so bad. I only knew that the adults were upset and the warmth between the two families had become guarded.

I remember the night before the festival, my parents told me:

Don’t get too close to them. They may hurt you too. You’re too young to understand these things.

I trusted my parents completely. They were my mentors, my protectors, and the safest people in my world. They were, and still are, good parents who were striving to protect me in the only way they knew how.

So, I listened. But something inside me quietly broke that night. Until then, loving my cousins had been easy. Suddenly, showing affection felt like something I needed permission for. Being happy felt almost disloyal.

If I ran towards them with the same excitement as before, would I be betraying my parents? If I stayed away, would I be betraying something true inside me?

I did not have the words for that conflict. I only knew that when my cousin arrived the next morning, I could not meet her with my old joy. My uncle’s family had also arrived carrying their own resentment and silence. My cousin and I both felt the heaviness, our old excitement now hidden behind an awkward quiet.

We went to the temple as usual. Prayers were said, rituals went on, and relatives greeted one another. The children moved among the adults, still unaware of the new emotional boundaries drawn around them. From the outside, we still looked like one family. But beneath the familiar rituals, there was an invisible wall. We gathered in the same sacred place, prayed before the same ancestors, and listened to the same temple bells, but we felt worlds apart.

The children wanted to live in the moment; the adults were still living inside the wound. When I look back now, one question continues to trouble me:

Why does ego so often win over love, even among people who have shared years of memories, traditions, and belonging?

The temple invited us to stand together. Our ancestors, prayers, and rituals reminded us that we came from the same roots. Yet, unresolved hurt had become stronger than the affection that once held everyone together. The disagreement did not remain between the adults. It crept into our laughter. It took away our freedom. It taught us to hold back from the people we loved naturally.

The story was repeated at home long after the festival ended. Each time it was retold, the distance grew a little deeper inside me. Without realizing it, I began carrying a quiet warning: Do not get too close. Something might happen.

Years later, that warning began appearing in relationships that had absolutely nothing to do with that initial family dispute. Whenever a connection became important to me, a guarded voice would speak quietly: Don’t become too attached. This may not last. Protect yourself before something changes.

For a long time, I thought that voice was wisdom. I believed I was just being careful, and that keeping my distance made me strong. I didn’t realize that a part of me was still stuck in that temple courtyard — wanting to run to the people I loved, but terrified it would hurt the people I trusted.

Eventually, I learned something that was both painful and freeing:

we do not inherit only our families’ traditions, rituals, recipes, and values. Sometimes, we inherit their unfinished conflicts, too. Their fears enter us as warnings. Their resentment becomes our caution. Their silence teaches us where affection must stop.

This realization didn’t make me blame my parents. Instead, it helped me understand them better. They were hurt. They tried to protect themselves, and they thought they were protecting me, too. But their pain reached further than they ever intended. What started as an argument between adults quietly shaped how a child understood love, loyalty, and safety.

Now, when I feel the familiar urge to withdraw, I pause. I ask myself whether something is truly wrong in the present, or whether I am just hearing an old warning echo from the past. Not every relationship is safe, and not every hurt should be ignored. But I don’t want the past to decide my future before the present even has a chance. I can honor what my parents experienced without carrying their conflict into every relationship of my own. I can love them without inheriting their distance.

When I think back to that summer now, I still feel the fracture. But it doesn’t take over the whole memory anymore. I still remember the fresh groundnuts, the freedom of bathing beneath the pump-set water, and the fragrance of flowers, sambar, and hot idlis shared after prayer.

That summer showed me that emotional walls don’t just stay between the people who build them. They spread quietly, teaching the next generation whom not to trust and how much love feels safe. It also taught me that while ego might protect a wound, it can never save a relationship. When proving who is right matters more than keeping the bond, love doesn’t always disappear. Sometimes, it just gets stuck behind pride, silence, and old distances.

For me, healing hasn’t meant choosing who was right back then. It means leaving their conflict in the past and refusing to let it shape my own story. Love does not have to inherit every wound that came before it.

Sometimes, healing begins when we stop asking who won the conflict, and start asking what the conflict made everyone lose. And sometimes, it begins when we finally allow ourselves to run towards the connections we were once taught to hold back from.

Warmly,

Dr.Sheelapriya Gopal | Feel the Feelings of Your True Essence.