How did I get here?
If you had asked me a few years ago how life was going, I would have naively told you that things were great—maybe even amazing.
I’d look around at what some of my friends and family were going through and think, I’m glad that’s not me.
I was grateful to have made it into adulthood seemingly unscathed from the trauma I experienced as a child.
If I’m being honest, I kind of thought I had it all figured out.
I was a homeowner—living in what my husband called his dream house.
I was pregnant with my second child.
I was steadily climbing the ladder at work, collecting promotions and pay increases.
I was traveling the world—Australia, Spain, Hawaii, and more.
Life was good—or so I thought.
Now, as I sit in the debris of the “ideal life” I believed I was living, I find myself asking: How did I get here?
And the answer? It’s obvious. So obvious, I’m not sure how I ever believed that a few years of therapy, some basic understanding of CBT, and forgiving my mother would be enough to erase the decades of physical and emotional abuse I endured.
That was only the tip of the iceberg.
Looking Back
For a long time, I couldn’t cry. Maybe I wouldn’t cry.
But now, as I reflect on my past and write this, tears spill over almost instantly.
When I was around 12 years old, I pulled my mother aside to tell her something I had been dreading for years: I was being abused by a family member.
I was so young when it started that I can’t even pinpoint the age or how it began. But by 12, I knew I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.
I was born in Cleveland, Ohio, where all of my extended family lived. But when I was very young, my mom met a man, got married, and moved us to Charlotte, North Carolina.
The abuse started before the move—possibly even before the wedding.
I have a faint memory of telling my mom what was happening back then, but no action was taken. I don’t know what excuse he gave—or if he was even confronted. All I know is that life went on… and so did the abuse.
When I look back on those years, my chest tightens. I feel fear. I’m back in that room—nervous, anticipating the violation.
There came a moment when I realized something terrifying: the “bad” was about to get worse. And I knew I had to protect myself.
Step one was telling my mom, trusting she would keep me safe. But instead of shielding me, she confronted him—with me at her side. And when he denied it, she believed him.
That betrayal still haunts me.
But I wasn’t done. I couldn’t be.
Step two: I told a trusted adult at school—a secretary. The details are foggy, but I know she saved me. She called the authorities. He went to jail.
And my mother stayed married to him.
She stayed married while he was incarcerated. She stayed married after he got out. By the time I was in high school, he was living in our home again.
I had to face my abuser daily for years—pressured to forgive, to “get over it.”
So I buried the betrayal, the fear, the pain. I carried them all inside, quietly.
Then and Now
So yeah… when I looked at my life—college educated, married with beautiful sons, a lovely home, a successful career—I told myself I was unscathed.
But the truth is: I didn’t understand the impact those experiences had on me.
I’ve only begun to unpack and recover.
This is just the beginning of my healing. I share it here—not because I’ve figured it all out—but because I’m finally choosing truth over illusion. Healing over hiding.
Journal prompts
Reflect on the key experiences, choices or beliefs from your past that may be influencing your current emotions, habits or relationships.
What patterns do you notice?
What parts of your past have you never fully unpacked or processed?
How do you see those moments showing up in your present behavior, boundaries or self-worth?
Are there any painful experiences you’ve labeled as ‘dealt with’ that might still need space to breathe, feel, or heal? If so, what are they?
How are those unspoken pieces influencing your current life?
