Unveiling the Ugly: Why Not Everyone's Story is Pretty

What I Mean When I Talk About Trauma Surviving

My childhood wasn’t normal. It wasn’t full of wonder or excitement. There were no princess dresses, fairy tales, or safe arms to run into. It was quiet in all the wrong ways—heavy with loneliness, fear, and responsibility that no child should have to carry.

I grew up too fast. I was a little girl who had to learn how to survive, not thrive. I had to take care of myself, and my sister, when we were both far too young to be left alone in the world. We weren’t raised—we were left behind. Thrown into situations we didn’t choose, and certainly didn’t deserve.

My father was in prison. My mother was lost to addiction and parties. She wasn’t there when we needed her most. And when we were finally placed into a home, it was with a woman who hurt us under the name of God. There was no safety, no comfort—only confusion, fear, and the constant sense that we were not wanted. Not protected. Not loved the way children should be.

I was exposed to things far too early things that still echo in my body to this day.

The abandonment left deep wounds. And because I had no tools, no guidance, no safe place to land, I coped the only way I knew how. I started smoking weed at 12. Drinking by 15. Anything to numb the weight I was carrying inside me. Anything to feel something different.

But of course, those patterns didn’t end in childhood. They followed me. Into my teenage years. Into adulthood. Into relationships where I didn’t know how to ask for love in healthy ways. Into moments where I self-sabotaged because I didn’t believe I was worthy of peace or joy. I never truly loved myself because I had never seen what that looked like. I didn’t understand that the anxiety, the emotional chaos, the disconnection—I didn’t know it all stemmed from the trauma I had endured as a child.

For years, I floated through life in survival mode. I wore a mask of "I'm fine" when I was anything but. I didn't have the language to talk about what I had been through. And even if I did, who would’ve listened?

But here’s the thing: I did survive. And now, at 37 years old, I’m finally learning how to live.

It’s taken me decades to find myself—to begin healing the younger version of me who never had a voice. And I’ve found that voice through my art.Painting has become more than a creative outlet—it’s my therapy, my lifeline, my sacred space where I can finally let it all out. Every brushstroke carries a piece of my story. My grief. My resilience. My hope.

My art reflects both the pain of my past and the healing I’m embracing now. It’s raw. It’s emotional. It’s often messy, just like trauma—and just like healing. But it’s real. And it’s mine.

To anyone who relates—to anyone who also grew up too fast, who felt abandoned, who still carries the weight of childhood trauma—you are not alone. There is no right timeline for healing. And you are not broken.

This is what I mean when I talk about trauma surviving. It’s not just about enduring the pain. It’s about choosing to come home to yourself, piece by piece. It’s about creating beauty from the ashes. It’s about telling your story, even when your voice shakes. Especially then.