The Chapters That Never Really Ended
When I look back at my formative years—my childhood and my teenage years—it isn’t just one moment that defines that title. It was a long, dark stretch defined by the mental and physical abuse I endured at the hands of my mother, and the sexual assault I faced from others. These weren’t just isolated events; they were the environment that shaped my foundation.
If I’m being completely honest, there is no “getting through it.” I don’t get to close that book and walk away. The trauma and the depression are still with me, still part of my daily reality. I am not on the other side of this; I am still living through it.
But I have found a way to breathe.
My writing is my lifeline. When I sit down to create, I’m not just putting words on a page—I’m building new worlds. In those worlds, I have control. In those worlds, I don’t have to exist in my own. Creating another reality gives me the space to step outside of the pain, even for just a little while.
It isn’t a cure, and it doesn’t take the weight away, but it gives me a place to go when the world I’m in feels like too much. My writing doesn’t fix the hard years, but it helps me hold on while I’m still navigating them.
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