How Physical Touch has Impacted My Life 

I still remember the first time I heard the term “touchy-feely”. My first-grade teacher had called me “touchy-feely” one day after seeing me hug my friends, and she noticed how I act when I am with them. Honestly, as a kid, I didn’t think much of it, but it stuck. She told me that not everyone was as touchy as I was, and that confused me. 

At home, I was surrounded by a loving family whose love influenced how I perceived the world; I deeply invested myself in, and sought validation from it. My achievements were heavily praised with hugs and kisses, yet I was encouraged to shove my faults into a perfectly wrapped, metaphorical box. When I made mistakes, failure was front and center; it was my enemy, and insecurity would set in. 

I began to struggle without that physical validation, holding onto whatever I could when I succeeded. But slowly, as I grew older, my parents stopped hugging and kissing me, and a hollow feeling settled inside me. It was a sort of longing that I felt. Longing for someone to hug me, longing for someone to hold my hand and say they were proud. 

After that, my life started to spiral a bit. The harder my classes got, the lower my grades got. I pushed myself harder and harder until life blurred into an endless cycle of longing and studying. My body was sleep-deprived; my eyes felt hollow, and the feeling inside my chest was growing emptier by the days. I was skinnier and weaker. I ate less and less, skipping meals to try to excel, all because I yearned for the [physical] affection of my parents.

I began searching for that validation through my friends, trying to hold their hands and hug them. “Some people just aren’t as touchy-feely as you are, Lucy.” My teacher’s words echoed in my head, and I’d pull back. Leaving my friends none the wiser. 

Now, as a teenager, I have crushes, as all girls do, and I find myself venturing into the romantic aspect of the world. And as I do, I find myself trying to figure out how to navigate it in a healthy, platonic way, but also in a healthy, physical way.

My dependency on touch was kicking in in another way. I wanted to hold a friend’s hand, have someone braid my hair. In general, someone or something to hold. I kept a pillow barrier beside me and cuddled another pillow just to feel like I wasn’t alone. I held my own hands to sleep, wrapped my own arms around my waist to feel like I was being held, and dreamt of a life where I could be loved with as much affection as I needed. I gained a new coping mechanism. Something to help me control whatever was making me anxious. 

My first boyfriend made me feel seen, made me feel like I was finally whole. And when he left, the familiarity of the hollowness returned to me. My desperation for touch drove me insane, craving the feeling of holding onto someone’s arm. I didn’t realize at the time how dependent I had become on touch. It wasn’t until I started thinking about a new relationship that I realized I didn’t actually want a boyfriend; I just wanted someone to be there with me. 

My perception of people changed through the way they expressed love. I toyed with the idea of platonic relationships, finding solace in platonic hugs and handholding, but eventually, it faltered into small sparks till I romanticized the feeling of being loved. 

Physical affection is something I classify as a bare necessity. I need it to sleep, to breathe, and to feel in many respects. Growing up in a loving and supportive household, to craving physical validation from friends and boyfriends, touch is my only way of truly feeling human, loved, and alive.