Childhood
People say childhood is supposed to be the best years of your life. They talk about family vacations, scraped knees, birthday parties, and feeling safe enough to run home when something goes wrong.
That wasn’t my childhood.
I grew up in a home where fear was a part of everyday life. My mom would hit me and my sisters while my dad sat and watched. Sometimes she would kick us while we were on the floor. One time she kicked me so hard in the chest that it knocked the breath out of me. Another time, she wrapped her hands around my neck and choked me.
I learned at a young age that home wasn’t always a safe place.
There were times Child Protective Services got involved. I remember my mom beating me with a broomstick so badly that my back hurt and I could barely move. CPS made her take me to the emergency room to make sure I was okay. Looking back now, I wonder how a child could go through something like that and still be expected to act like everything was normal.
In our house, we weren’t allowed to have feelings. My mom would tell us we could talk to her about anything, but the moment we did, we regretted it. It felt like walking through a minefield, never knowing what would set someone off.
As I got older, the physical abuse toward me and my sisters slowed down, but it didn’t stop in our family. My brothers became the next targets. By then, I was already carrying more than any child should have to.
I became depressed. I felt lost and alone. Eventually, I started seeing a counselor who truly cared about me. I still remember him after all these years. He saw things that other people either couldn’t or wouldn’t see. He fought to get me out of that environment because he was afraid of what would happen if I stayed. Looking back, I believe he may have saved my life.
Going into foster care was scary, but it also changed my life for the better. For the first time, I started learning things that most kids learn from their parents. I learned how to cook, clean, and take care of myself. I discovered who I was outside of the chaos I had grown up in.
I joined the spring color guard in high school and performed with the marching band. I worked harder in school and started believing that maybe my future didn’t have to look like my past. Foster care wasn’t perfect, but it gave me opportunities I might never have had otherwise.
My childhood wasn’t only shaped by violence at home. Family members who should have protected me failed me too.
One of my uncles had just gotten out of prison when he started touching me in ways no child should ever experience. The abuse went on for about a year. When I finally found the courage to tell someone, I wasn’t believed. That hurt almost as much as the abuse itself.
Later, that same uncle tried to kill my sister. She still tells me that if I hadn’t stepped in, she wouldn’t be here today. Even after that, he was still allowed around our family. I still struggle to understand how the adults who were supposed to protect us could make those choices.
I also became a parent long before I was grown. I helped raise my brothers and sisters. I changed diapers, made sure they had food, and tried to take care of them the best I could. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew they needed someone.
My little sister still talks about how I helped raise them. Hearing that reminds me that even as a child, I was doing everything I could to protect the people I loved.
Not every memory from my childhood was bad. We played hide-and-seek in the dark and ran through the woods. We spent days on the lake in my dad’s boat and went bridge jumping. Those moments of laughter remind me that even in difficult times, there were small pieces of joy.
Writing this has been one of the hardest things I have ever done. There are still memories that hurt and questions I’ll probably never have answers to.
I am not completely healed. Some days, I don’t think I’m even halfway there. But every day, I make a choice to keep moving forward. I try to forgive the people who hurt me, not because they deserve it, but because I deserve peace.
If sharing my story helps one person feel less alone, then every difficult word was worth writing.
My childhood shaped me, but it does not define me. I survived, and I am still learning how to live, heal, and hope.
And if you’ve lived through something similar, I want you to know something I am still learning myself: You are stronger than you think
Life is hard but we can make the best of it 