You don’t forget the moment your childhood ends, not when it ends in pain. Not when your body becomes a battleground before you even know what safety is supposed to feel like. This is the start of my story, the truth about surviving abuse that tried to break me.
It started so early, I didn’t even realize it was wrong. That’s how abuse works when it’s close, when it’s family. When the hands that harm you are the same ones passing you a plate at dinner. When the voices that violate you are the same ones tucking you in at night. You learn to compartmentalize real fast.
Surviving abuse that tried to break me meant learning how to disappear without ever leaving the room. I mastered the art of silence. Of stillness. Of pretending to sleep while monsters crept into my bed. I learned how to shrink my soul and hide it behind my eyes.
People love to say kids are resilient. That we bounce back.
But they never ask what it costs us.
Because I didn’t bounce back. I cracked wide open.
I grew up in survival mode. No time for healing, no space to cry, no one safe enough to trust.
And by the time I was old enough to leave, the damage was already tattooed on my nervous system.
And still, I survived.
That’s the thing they never expected.
That the girl they tried to destroy would rise.
Not polished. Not perfect. Not unscathed.
But awake.
And more dangerous than they ever imagined.
Surviving abuse that tried to break me wasn’t the end of my story.
It was the beginning.
The moment I stopped hiding, stopped blaming myself, and started reclaiming every piece they tried to steal.
And this series? This is me giving voice to the silence.
Burning down the shame.
And building truth on the ashes.
