Invisible children: the hidden wounds of privileged childhoods
Part 2 of 5: Beyond the Golden Ghetto Series
Hey, what began as a three-part series has evolved into something more expansive. As I've delved deeper into the material and received valuable feedback, I've discovered there's much more to explore. I'm excited to announce that this will now be a five-part series, and you'll have access to all of it in the coming weeks. Now, let's begin.
The aroma of oatmeal wafted in the air filling me with a sense of safety. Cheng’s carefully set breakfast table reflected her approach to everything she did—meticulous care, whether it was folding our clothes or making meals.
While many of my peers saw their nannies come and go, Cheng stayed. She became our rock: a constant, reassuring presence, and a stern taskmaster. I am convinced she's the reason I'm alive today. My story is rare: nannies seldom become family, yet Cheng has been with us for nearly 50 years, transitioning from caregiver to cherished grandmother figure in retirement. Some parents can't tolerate their children's attachment to an outside caregiver. In our case, our mother and Cheng formed a team, united in raising three children.
‘Children are to be seen, not heard’
Growing up, many of us heard the maxim "children should be seen and not heard." For many families, this attitude profoundly shapes how children experience love and connection—or its absence.
A mentor once shared the following with me. His father—a workaholic and alcoholic—couldn't bear the sounds of children in the house. His mother, who struggled with love addiction, initially hired a nanny to care for him but grew jealous of their bond and dismissed her when he was barely three years old. Traumatized, he refused to eat for weeks. When he cried over this loss, his mother berated him, teaching him early that his feelings and thoughts didn't matter.
Jessie O’Neill captures this dynamic well in her book The Golden Ghetto:
“With each successive loss of a loving and attentive caretaker, the child becomes less willing and less able to attach and commit to a lasting relationship for fear that it will also be taken away. The trauma is heightened by the fact that one person the child loves (the nanny) is being sent away by an even more important love object (the parent). The children learn to believe it is not safe to love: ‘Whomever I love leaves or is sent away. I must be unlovable or they would stay. I will not love or be loved.’”
My mentor learned to suppress his emotions, particularly intense ones like anger and grief. Only as a teenager did he find acceptance, entertaining adults at dinner parties with his intellectual conversation.
Behind the accolades, though, he was silently screaming for emotional connection. His parents treated him as a “singe savant”—a performing monkey who excelled academically but had no space for vulnerability. To cope, he turned to alcohol, sex, and drugs. Drinking was socially acceptable in his family’s world, making his descent into addiction easy.
Through sobriety, therapy, and support groups, he has finally rebuilt his sense of self. He's now learning to form authentic connections, express his needs and show vulnerability without shame.
When glamor masks pain
A client grew up with a similar father: a self-made billionaire obsessed with presenting a perfect external image to the world. To her, he became a godlike figure. At first, she felt like the “chosen child.”
But the relationship turned toxic. Her father’s temper frightened her, and her mother’s jealousy left her without support. She learned to suppress her emotions, burying her feelings under a veneer of perfection.
The result? Anxiety, eating disorders, substance abuse, and unhealthy relationships. Outwardly, she seemed to have it all: beauty, charm, and a life splashed across glossy magazines. But inside, she felt invisible.
This is the pain of emotional abandonment. While physical abandonment is often recognized, emotional neglect is more insidious—especially in privileged families where the outward picture seems perfect.
A therapist once told me that it is far worse to be ignored by a physically present parent than to be yelled at.
The double-edged sword of boarding schools
In privileged circles, boarding schools often serve as a convenient solution for emotional neglect. In "Boarding School Syndrome," Joy Schaverien, a UK-based psychotherapist, reveals the hidden trauma behind an institution synonymous with privilege and success.
“The painful experiences of boarding, for many, inhabit the shadowy realm of split-off emotions. Secretly hidden they remain unconscious until the person is emotionally compelled to explore it. The transference can be complicated by the projected veneer of sophistication and confidence."
These institutions teach children the intellectual and social skills to succeed, but they come with trade-offs. For some, like another client, Lisa (name changed for privacy), boarding school offered partial salvation. Sent to a small school in the Swiss Alps at age six after suffering severe burns while attempting to cook unsupervised—a final indication of her alcoholic mother's unfitness to parent—she found refuge there. With her father unable to step back from work, the Swiss boarding school became Lisa's refuge. While she has outwardly flourished as a successful lawyer, the impacts linger: she exercises obsessively, and one of her children struggles with mental health issues.
“There are some for whom school is better than home. In these cases, school is a sanctuary, offering relief from constant insecurity, neglect, or abuse; as one of my patients expressed it: ‘At school at least you knew where the punishment was coming from.” For this man, and others like him, boarding school was preferable to home because it offered stability which his parents, despite their material wealth, were unable to provide.”
For others, these institutions deepen abandonment wounds. Emotional neglect, systemic bullying, sexual abuse, and isolation often reinforce the message that love and connection are conditional. “The boarding school child, as we have already seen, learns not to complain,” Shaverien continues.
Breaking the cycle
I once felt "stuck" despite years of self-work. When my codependency coach suggested exploring my childhood further, I resisted. After all, I'd already completed trauma reduction workshops and shed plenty of tears.
"No, Diana. You need to dig deeper," she insisted.
Reluctantly, I attended an emotional trauma workshop in Arizona. The experience transformed me, unearthing and releasing feelings I didn't know still lived within me. I emerged more emotionally regulated and more present.
If you struggle with intimacy, vulnerability, and emotional expression, I encourage you to reach out to a licensed therapist trained in trauma work to work on your past. Please, do not attempt to do this alone or with a coach. Coaches do not have the competencies to handle this kind of work.
One of my specialties is helping clients find the right therapist for their needs. While my practice is currently at capacity, you can join my waitlist here if you'd like support in your therapeutic journey.
In the meantime… the scent of oatmeal and Cheng’s carefully folded linens still linger in my kitchen, but now they carry deeper meaning. They’re reminders of the love I received and the cycles I’m still working hard to break.
In that space between privilege and pain, I’ve found my path to real connection—and I believe we all can. One carefully folded moment at a time.
Until next week!
Diana
P.S. I write all my blog posts myself. But I use AI to help correct grammar and spelling mistakes once I've finished. Since you've taken time to read this, I think it's important for you to know.
To learn more about Diana and her work, visit her website.