Yes, of course pain changed me—but so did pleasure. Traumatized at a young age from lack of maternal support… or “mommy issues”, to cut straight to the point. I used to blame my mother for every inconvenience I experienced in my teenage years and early adult life. While my perspective was valid—and every piece of anger and resentment I had against her can be justified— I could no longer hide behind victim mentality if I expected to blossom into the woman I always dreamt of being, and into the mother my children would need me to be.

It wasn’t all bad. My mother wasn’t on drugs, we never lived on the streets and we pretty much always had food—no matter how little or the quality; we were fed. 

I don’t recall much of my childhood under the age of 12. Probably because I blocked so much of it out. I remember being sexually assaulted by people I simply cannot fix my mouth to name. I remember my mom being in an abusive relationship. There were good moments too, little glimpses of normalcy that made me feel almost safe; like when she used to have her friends over for game night. I remember she used to cook these bomb ass bbq chicken wings. Her lasagna was always fire and she would cook something called yak; I have no idea what that is and I never had it again after those days. 

We were on food stamps. The paper kind.. may have been embarrassing then but shit, as an adult woman now; I appreciate her for trying. My mom always had a job too. She wasn’t no bum; she was just afraid of life I think.

As I got to my preteen years, I noticed my mom was oddly distant. She didn’t do the hugs or “I love yous”.  She never spoke life or reassurance—at least not when I needed it most. She just went to work and came home to hide in her room. That bothered me. 

My family wasn’t really affectionate, come to think about it. It made me feel hated, and disappointed that this is the life I had to be apart of. Not only were we poor financially—we were poor in love too. 

The day that imprinted the most was when I first got my period. I was thirteen years  old and terrified to tell my mom for some reason. When I finally whipped up the courage, she was outside smoking her cigarette. I slowly pushed the door open and said, “mom, I’m on my period.” Nothing. We both stood in silence for a few moments. Then she reply’s “okay”. 

That’s it. 

I was so confused and lowkey embarrassed that I even told her. Why? Who knows. What I do know is that she never spoke to me about it again. She didn’t help me with understanding what it even was, how to care for myself or what to expect. Between my older sister and my friends—they were all the guidance I had.

I was a cheerleader, I stepped and performed in church with my neighbors. My mom never witnessed any of it. Not one game, championship, or church event. No parent-teacher conferences. She couldn’t tell you a single memory of me doing any of it. 

That shit hurt me so bad. I hated her for it. I couldn’t help but think she didn’t actually see me—or like me, for that matter. Couldn’t have. By this time, I longed to be anywhere but home. 

Once high school came around, it wasn’t much you could tell me. I had discipline issues. I just didn’t care anymore so I started to rebel. Skipping school, smoking weed, selling drugs.. whatever I wanted to do to be honest. It wasn’t long before I realized that I was on a path to destruction. 

I was now 16.. looking around and saw no one of the influence. The person i wanted to be didn’t exist in those streets. I had no one to guide me, no one to show me what to do right and no one to tell me I’m fucking my life up. So I ran away to find a better life. 

I ended up in another state with some church going people. They were a breath of fresh air. Something like I’ve never seen before. A real family, ya know? They’re my family now too— even though we don’t speak much anymore. Being apart of the church and a real family who showed love and support gave me insight while letting me know it’s all possible, but I didn’t feel fulfilled. The time I spent with them helped purify me, but it wasn’t the answer— so staying there didn’t last long. 

I questioned everything, everyone and every part of what I knew about life. It all led me back to self. I never got the answers I was searching for while being Christian—that led me to stop believing in that God and the church all together. Shortly after, I began my journey to being found. 

Over the past decade, I’ve found peace. I’ve allowed myself to heal from the things I never had the courage to speak about. Though I tried therapy, I cannot give it the credit. That shit didn’t work for me. I fired the three therapist I had because they either said I’m “so self-aware” or I “should be a therapist too”— some shit that I already knew. 

I realize I held the power and the keys to any door I wanted to open—so I did. The doors in question…serenity, excitement, wisdom, joy, love, confidence, acceptance, accountability, softness, and the dedication to evolving but not so much that I forget that I have an end goal that requires enjoyment, surrender and commitment.  

Often I’m asked “how did you do it?” Especially if they know where I came from. I tell them that it took persistence, will power, the courage to let go of my old life and the confidence to shine bright as ever in my new one— even with no one watching or clapping. 

I’m a woman now. A mother, a wife and a dear friend. Im a spiritualist and an advocate for holistic living and I encourage everyone to do the inner workings in order to grow and live a fruitful life. 

Of course it’s not always kale and yoga or soft speaking and gardening.. sometimes I yell, I curse like a sailor, and I get a mean ass attitude. I’m still the homegirl from around the way but now I’m healed—I wasn’t always this way.