For most of my life, I’ve carried a quiet, aching question: Why didn’t anyone really see me?
I wasn’t the silent, easy child that emotional neglect is often associated with. I was vocal. I felt everything. I cried out for love, for comfort, for someone to come and say, “I’m here, you’re safe.” But those cries went unanswered. I remember sobbing so hard I’d start coughing and choking, only to be ignored. And when the silence finally broke, it wasn’t with comfort—it was with fear. Threats. Smacks. The message was clear: my feelings weren’t welcome, and neither was I.
When you grow up like that, you learn quickly that being vulnerable isn’t safe. That needing love is too much. And even though I stopped asking out loud, the need never left. It just sank deeper, waiting, hoping one day it might be met.
But it wasn’t. Not in childhood. Not in early adulthood. And I’ve spent much of my life carrying the weight of that unmet need.
I’ve tried to heal. I’ve done the work, asked the hard questions, tried to untangle the pain that still lives in me. But here’s what I’ve learned: healing isn’t neat. It’s not a straight line. It’s not something you finish like a task crossed off a list.
Healing hurts.
It means facing the parts of yourself that were never loved the way they should have been. It means feeling the grief of what was missing, over and over. And even when you’ve done the work, even when you’ve come so far, the echoes are still there. The old wounds still whisper.
This is why I care so deeply about childhood.
Because I know how hard it is to grow up without connection. And I know how painful it is to try and fix what never should have been broken in the first place.
That’s why I created Aimee Rose Little Readers—not just to create stories, but to create safety. To help parents see their children, hear them, hold them in love that doesn’t hurt. I don’t want children to grow up needing to heal from their childhood. I want them to grow up whole.
When I write, I think of the child I was. The one who cried, who begged, who was told she was too much. I write so other children know they are enough. I write so parents can find ways to connect, even when it’s hard, even when they’re still healing too.
I believe it’s easier to build strong, emotionally secure children than it is to repair broken adults. Because healing takes everything you have. But love, seen early, given freely, changes everything.
We don’t have to repeat what we lived through. We can choose differently. We can give our children what we didn’t have.
This isn’t just a brand. It’s my heart, my story, my way of turning pain into purpose. Every child deserves to be loved, to feel safe, to grow up knowing they matter.
And that’s why I’m here.