I don’t care paradox

“I don’t care.”

These are the three words I often say to people or mutter under my breath. You’ve probably heard them from your loved ones or friends too. They’re common, way too common. But there’s something ironic about saying them and secretly caring too much. It’s a paradox I know well. I remember repeating those words to myself over and over as a child, convincing myself that what others said didn’t matter, that their judgment was irrelevant. But the truth is,I always cared. I care way too much. I can say “I don’t care” out loud while my mind is busy dissecting all the reasons I probably should. The smallest, most trivial things stick with me. My brain takes these moments, spins them into something bigger, and suddenly they feel like they should matter. Saying “I don’t care” is easy but not really caring, is something else entirely.

Childhood experience 1: Maybe it goes back to my childhood. I was raised by my grandmother, and whenever she was angry, she’d yell that she didn’t care if we ended up in a ditch or got kidnapped. But even then, I could tell she did care. Her constant nagging, her warnings, it was all love in disguise. I knew she cared way too much when I’d come home in the wee hours of the morning and found her waiting for me in the living room. All just to make sure I got home safely.

Over time, I started to believe that the people who say “I don’t care“ are usually the ones who care too much. I know this because I’m one of them. I overthink everything and the people around me notice. They ask if I’m okay, I shrug it off and say “I don’t care,” but inside, it eats at me. Criticism. Body language. Offhand comments. I don’t want to care, but when you grow up with such low self-esteem, no love for thyself, you naturally become a professional observer. In a way, you’re always one step ahead and you try to adjust the way you act around others so you can fit in. You constantly scan for signals, and every little thing feels like a clue confirming the worst about yourself.

At night, I lie in bed replaying moments like a broken recorder. I remember every time I said “I don’t care” and actually meant, “This bothers me more than it should.” Even after years of trying to condition myself to truly mean it when I say “I don’t care”, I’ve realized I’m still incapable, at least not fully.

Perhaps I never felt like I had the right to express how I felt. Yes, I get hurt by people’s actions or words, but I rarely speak up. Swallowing my feelings always felt easier than trying to explain them. “I don’t care” becomes a shortcut, a shield. It spares me the burden of justifying why I’m upset.

Childhood experience 2: For as long as I can remember, I was never given a chance to explain myself. Any time I tried, my family saw it as disrespect or rebellion. So I stopped. I took in all the criticism and punishment, whether I deserved it or not. I learned to stay silent. Even when it felt unfair, I shut down my emotions and endured it, because saying how I felt didn’t matter. My opinions didn’t count, I was a nobody.

At some point, I learned to deal with pain by shutting it down before anyone could notice. I avoid confrontation not because I don’t care, but because I don’t have the capacity to work through it. I never felt equipped for conversations about feelings as I didn’t build that skillset as a child. In many ways, I still process emotions with the maturity of a 7-year-old. I might sound composed on the surface, but if you asked how I felt inside, my words and feelings would contradict one another. That’s because I don’t fully understand what I’m feeling in the first place.

A child in this state often feels confused and overwhelmed. Like a child, I don’t have the language or tools to explain my inner world, so I shut down or withdraw. I’m afraid to say the wrong thing, unsure of whether my feelings are okay to express. Instead of reaching out, I’d rather remain in my safe zone by avoiding emotional situations altogether. Over time, this becomes a pattern: silence over honesty, distance over connection, and surface-level calm hiding inner chaos.

I’m learning that the words we avoid saying are often the ones we need to say the most. “I don’t care” has been my armor, but it’s also been my cage. It kept things out, but it also kept me in. Now, I’m slowly trying to unlearn that instinct, to speak up even when it feels uncomfortable, to admit when something hurts, and to let people in without needing to pretend I’m unaffected. Maybe I’ll never be someone who fully stops caring, I’m okay with it. But I can try to start by caring in the open, without shame, and that feels like a better place to start.