Ch. 1 -Rare Childhood Sets the Stage for a Search for Peace + Service

Every time I tell this story—which isn’t often anymore—I watch confusion flicker across people’s faces. I want to preface this by saying that I’m sharing it with purpose: in case it reaches someone who is suffering emotionally or physically, someone who needs to know that hope exists.

This story is no longer my story. I had to learn how to release it—even though it was deeply unjust—because holding onto it was keeping me tethered to an identity that was never truly mine. What happened shaped my path, but it does not define who I am. In many ways, it led me toward discovering myself as spirit rather than ego, and onto a path I now see as unexpectedly beautiful.

For many years in adulthood, I chastised myself for wanting freedom so badly. I feared routine and commitment. I wanted to be a wild butterfly. While others seemed to follow a neat, linear path, my vision for life felt scattered. I wanted to try everything—art, sports, poetry, travel—things that weren’t considered “practical” or career-oriented by society’s standards.

Over time, I began to understand that this longing for freedom was born from childhood entrapment. The intensity of my need to live fully erupted in my mid-twenties, when I finally began life on my own. But that awakening came at a cost—one that required years of unraveling and healing.

To understand my story, I have to begin with my parents.

My mother had me at thirty-six. I was the youngest of four children. Her own life had already been shaped by tragedy: she had her first two children at eighteen, and her first husband later died by suicide, leaving her alone with two babies. When she met my father, she was already exhausted and vulnerable.

My father carried deep trauma of his own. His father died of cancer when he was an infant, and he grew up in a violent environment that left him with severe mental health struggles and a debilitating drinking problem. When he entered my mother’s life, he swept in forcefully. They later had my brother, and then me. My parents were together for thirty years—most of it unwillingly, at least on my mother’s part.

From the beginning, neglect was my baseline. My father controlled every aspect of our lives. He was physically violent, psychologically manipulative, and disturbingly intelligent. A professional con artist, he would cycle through periods of financial abundance after deceiving people into believing he was an investor—only for the money to vanish as quickly as it appeared. It was chaotic, unstable, and terrifying, but it was also my normal.

I hesitate to use words like narcissist or gaslighting because they’re so overused now—but my father was who they wrote narcissim about (people like him that are dangerous). I’ve spent years working toward forgiveness, but the truth is that he was not a functional member of society. His psychological issues dominated every space he entered.

Our birthdays were eight days apart. When I was born, my father was consumed with preparations for his own celebration. While I was literally being born, my mother—who lived under constant threat of physical violence—was forced to leave the hospital against her will to return home and fulfill her “duties” as a wife.

During my first week of life, I was left in the ICU with nurses and caregivers. My collarbone was broken, and I had fluid in my lungs. My mother still cries when she speaks about that time—about not being able to hold me, about how I was treated as another burden rather than a baby.

In our household, my brother was my father’s golden child. My mother and I were expected to serve the men. We cooked, shopped, and literally served dinner to the boys. We ate last. My mother even put my father’s shoes on for him and was on constant watch to make sure he did not throw a violent rage. Silence was survival. I learned quickly to make myself small.

School became my refuge. I was hyperactive, energetic, and involved in everything—academics, activities, sports. Looking back, I see symptoms that resemble ADHD, but I also recognize how much of it was trauma-driven and a big reason in my work now, that I look at functional causes to conditions. School was the only place my nervous system could release energy safely.

My father rarely slept. He suffered from severe insomnia and would call “family meetings” in the middle of the night—sometimes starting at one or two in the morning. We’d be pulled from our beds and forced to sit on the couch while he spoke in manic loops for hours. If we nodded off, violence followed.

To stay awake, I learned to hurt my hands. I would pull my fingers partially out of their sockets just to create enough pain to remain alert. I lived in constant fear. Even now, I notice how difficult it is for me to focus when someone talks to me as an adult—a residue of those nights.

We walked on eggshells constantly. A misplaced napkin, a spilled drink—anything could trigger a full day of punishment. There were nights when he forced my mother to the floor and made her do push-ups while insulting her body or make her stand outside in the snow and make me look at how “weak” she was. He made us participate in humiliating her. If we didn’t comply, we were punished too.

He manipulated us psychologically, I was trained to WANT his love, to win him, so I was safe. Later, this turned into what they call “disorganized attachment”. I never knew whether to go close or stay away.

Neighbors occasionally called the police when they heard the violence. Child Protective Services came. I remember looking at a social worker with tears in my eyes when she asked if my father hit us. I wanted to say yes. But to survive, I said no. I watched them walk out the door.

Escape felt impossible. It became cult-like. Birthday money went to my father. Financial control was absolute. I was isolated from friends and forced to lie constantly. My father told elaborate, grandiose lies to others—claiming he played with famous bands—and would look at me to confirm his lies to other people.

At five years old, I learned to recognize his footsteps on the stairs—to gauge whether he was drunk, manic, or dangerous. Hypervigilance became second nature.

When I was “too loud” or joyful, I was asked to choose my punishment - belt in the basement or no dinner. I chose to be locked in my bedroom overnight without dinner. At least then, I would feel safe. This is where I learned to be avoidant. I would watch shadows pass beneath the door, waiting to see if anyone was coming, I wanted someone to save me, but if someone came, it could have been violent. I was always so confused. I believed I was bad. That belief stayed with me for years.

Violence extended beyond our immediate family. Holidays often ended in chaos. I witnessed my father hold a gun to my grandmother’s throat, choke his friends, and humiliate guests. He abused a vulnerable friend by stealing his trust fund, forcing alcohol into his drink, and beating him—then ordered my mother to clean him up. This went on for years. The man ended up in the hospital for alcoholism - that was forced by my dad. But everything was covered up, it was classically good manipulation. No one guessed it was him. He bailed out of jail every time and he stole thousands of dollars of people in ways where they could never get him in trouble.

At fifteen, after I won a pageant, my father saw an opportunity. He forced my mother and me to travel the state asking for donations, with daily quotas to meet. That money became our household income. If we didn’t bring home enough money, the consequences were severe. My adolescence disappeared.

Expression was dangerous. Crying was punished. Silence wasn’t enough. I could never win.

As a teenager, this trauma hardened me. I became aggressive when drunk, emotionally shut down, deeply distrustful. My ego grew as armor. Eventually, I stood up to my father.

I told my mother that the next time he drank, we would call the police.

Something in me broke open—and that moment marked the beginning of my escape.

At seventeen, I helped get my family out of an abusive home that could have killed us—and almost did. My father went to jail. The rest of us were left to piece together a life we didn’t understand yet. It felt like being released from a cage after decades in darkness, unsure how to move, but no longer trapped.