Recognizing redemption

“You’ll See”

“He is never going to work,” my grandmother whispered.
“You’ll see,” she added.
And somewhere deep in my spirit, I echoed her words though I didn’t fully understand them at the time.

Back then, all I saw was potential.
But potential without action becomes weight.
And I carried that weight every single day.

“He can’t even hold his pants up,” she once said, shaking her head as his underwear showed.
A small moment, but now I see it for what it was:
A metaphor
Not just about pants.
But about responsibility.
Effort.
Pride.
Drive.

Years passed, and I found myself mentally drained.
Working with no help.
Pushing through two jobs for most of my life.
Trying to hold up an entire household while no one held me up.

What I thought was partnership…
Was survival.

And when you live in survival mode too long,
You forget what it feels like to be safe.
To rest.
To receive.

New day, same pain.

As I pushed through life, exhaustion became my norm.
In the midst of that survival, without malice or intention,
I found myself pregnant again.
Some might say, "Well, you had time for that."
As if pain can’t coexist with pleasure.
As if chaos doesn’t crave connection.
And like my grandmother used to say,
“A hard head makes a soft behind.”

My choices weren’t rooted in recklessness.
They came from trauma.
From abandonment.
From a longing to love
To be loved.
To create something everlasting in a world full of temporary.

Though he was physically present, the burnout didn’t stop.
His body was there,
But the weight—
It still sat on my shoulders.

And there were too many moments when I couldn’t show up for my children
In the way I had always dreamed.
Not because I didn’t want to—
But because I simply had nothing left to give.

The show-up wasn’t in quality.
Quality over quantity, they say.
But survival mode doesn’t give you a choice.

I envisioned a version of motherhood full of warmth,
Softness,
Intentional love.
But survival dims the light in even the brightest hearts.

So I navigated parenthood through exhaustion,
Resentment,
And a field of unmet needs.

Still
I showed up.
To the best of my abilities.
Even when I was breaking inside.

And sometimes, the quiet question whispered through my thoughts:
Would I even be missed if I were gone?
Does anyone really care if I exist… or don’t?

I need a break.
A pause.
A space to breathe.
To be held for once.

"Break?" you say?
Just a glimpse of what life looked like
Let me paint this picture

Coming home to clean
To cook
And even on the days they cooked, I still had to clean the kitchen
No rest
No pause
No exhale
No welcome home
Just souls existing to sleep and wake

The existing became more evident after the betrayal, yes, plural
But a person will never recognize betrayal if their mind is fixed
Fixed on dysfunction
Fixed on avoidance
Fixed on fantasy

And in the chaos of that home, I was always in school
Always searching
Searching for purpose
Searching for identity
Searching for validation
Searching to search, honestly

I knew this couldn’t be life
And if it was
I couldn’t confidently say I’d want to keep existing in it
Some might say that’s harsh
And no, I don’t glorify that darkness
But let’s be real
We should be able to say how we feel
How we felt
Without being shamed in the space

That’s my truth

And that’s why it’s important to work through our pain
To remove ourselves from mentally draining relationships and suffocating spaces
Because every day became an epic search to simply be seen

Hoping that maybe, just maybe
If I achieved enough
Accomplished enough
Someone would finally say I see you

But the truth is
I was chasing approval from people who could never understand me
Shit, they don’t even see me, so how can they value me
Who could never withstand
The weight of my worth

There was no validation
No appreciation for what I did for him
No recognition for what I brought to that family
No gratitude for the light I carried

The most pathetic part
I kept trying to save a “family” that never had a real foundation
We were all building on sand, no anchoring at all
On the back of a man who, even 15… 20 years later
Still dragged his pants
Still refused to fix his appearance unless for some odd occasion

And I
Still celebrated his soul
Hoping if he felt good, maybe he’d reflect it back to me
But that hope only enabled him
Because I celebrated traits that were toxic, selfish, and irresponsible
And when I finally spoke up
When I said, “You’re being lazy”
You’re capable of more than you're projecting
I became the problem

Damn if I do. Damn if I don’t

The ones who should’ve said, “Do better”
Instead said, “You’re doing just fine. She’s the problem, it’s not you”
But healthy villages require honesty
But how can a family hold him accountable when they themselves are delusional
A healthy supportive family would support the family as a whole

They require the courage to say
“You’re wrong. You need to grow”

As a wife, a woman, a friend
I thought it was my job to encourage growth
But somehow, I was always the one in the wrong

Me working
That became his excuse to never step up
To avoid becoming a man
Not just for us but for himself

And me
I was wrong for dreaming
Wrong for wanting partnership instead of martyrdom
Wrong for craving teamwork
Wrong for wanting a family built on shared effort

I gave rides
Exhausted
Shared my vehicles
Gave my peace
Gave time I didn’t have
Gave up boundaries daily to a family that never loved me

But I loved them unwavering

And the moment I said “no”
God forbid
I became the villain

So often, I said “forget it” to my own needs
Not in words but in actions
Trying to prove myself to people who only knew how to take

The moment you choose yourself
Set boundaries
Reclaim your voice
You become “she ain’t nothing” in the eyes of the damaged

Not because you hurt them
But because your healing exposes their refusal to grow
Your boundaries highlight the chaos they’ve normalized
Your no disrupts the access they felt entitled to

Let’s be clear
Damaged souls will always vilify what they don’t understand
Especially when you choose freedom over dysfunction

Your peace looks like betrayal
To people who only knew you through your pain

So when you evolve
They call you selfish
Fake
Disloyal

But here’s the truth

You were never the villain
You were just finally brave enough
To stop playing the victim
In a story that was never yours to carry

And if being “ain’t nothing” means
Protecting my peace
Standing in my worth
Refusing to shrink for broken people
Who won’t even acknowledge they have issues

Then so be it
Call me what you need to

I call it freedom
And freedom begins with truth

I was a victim of trauma
Of pain passed down
Of wounds I didn’t create
But carried anyway

And I will no longer wear those wounds as a shield
To justify behaviors that hold me back

For most of my life, I wore labels that weren’t mine
Too much
Too extra
Too emotional
Too strong
Too crazy
Too ambitious

But the truth is
I was just trying to survive
Trying to love right
Trying to build something solid
In the middle of emotional earthquakes

Truth is, I came into the space with emotional earthquakes

But I loved everyone unwavering

They told stories about me
Called me all kinds of names
Said I switched up

And you know what
Absolutely I did
Because that’s what growth looks like
That’s what God calls us to do

When I started choosing myself
Stopped explaining my boundaries
Stopped carrying what wasn’t mine

They called me selfish
Crowned a man who spoke negatively about his own family

Never sacrificed anything for them
But I did

But I’ve learned
Freedom has a cost
That cost was a family I loved despite their dysfunction and quirks
And I am okay with that
Because they never valued me
Peace is something you fight for
And I had to fight through many demons and sleepless nights

Feeling like the walking dead

I’m not the villain
I’m the survivor
The healer
The one who decided that the cycle ends with me

Four years ago, almost to this exact day—we finalized our divorce
And let me be honest
It wasn’t easy
But it was necessary

That decision came with grief
Guilt
And a flood of what-ifs
What if I tried harder
What if no one else ever sees me
What if choosing me means being alone

Even the pre jealousy of what if he does everything, I ever wanted him to do with someone else.
All I desired was a teammate. Problem was even just that simple want was me settling for less than I deserve. 

But after all the what ifs came a quiet but powerful desire
To live life to its maxesity
To not just exist
But to fully live

That desire started as just a dream
A distant, fragile hope
Something I believed might exist
Maybe
For someone else

But the idea of actually pulling it off
It felt virtually impossible

I had moments where I cried on bathroom floors
Where I questioned everything
Where I almost turned back
I wrestled with thoughts that told me I wasn’t enough
Or that my best days were behind me

But even in the mess
I kept walking
I kept choosing me

Because healing doesn’t always look graceful
Sometimes it’s gritty
Sometimes it’s lonely
But it’s always worth it

And today
Standing in this moment
I don’t mourn that chapter
I honor it
Because it brought me here

To a love that is safe
To a marriage that is healthy
To a version of myself that is whole

This is a new beginning
As a wife
Not just in title
But in truth
In trust
And in peace

This is what growth looks like
This is what healing feels like
This is what choosing yourself leads to

So if you’re reading this 
Don’t be afraid to release what was
In order to receive what is meant

If you hold on to things not meant for you
You will never find what is truly meant for you

Invisible

I move through the day like a ghost in my own life. Present, but not truly seen. Necessary, but never appreciated.

It starts every morning before the world stirs. The air in the room is still, heavy with the silence between us. I wake up first, always. Not because I want to but because I have to. I check for his breathing. Not with love, not with concern, but with a strange mix of resentment and disbelief. Still here. Still sleeping peacefully while I carry the weight of all our lives on my back.

He doesn’t see me. Not the real me. Not the woman who sacrifices sleep and peace and time and energy just to keep the house, the kids, the future… from falling apart. He sees convenience. A warm body. A maid. A placeholder. But not me.

It’s maddening.

Every time I speak, it’s like my words fall into a bottomless pit. I say what I need, how I feel, what’s missing and it’s like I’m talking to a wall. No change. No effort. Not even acknowledgment. Just that same blank, bored stare or that silence that cuts deeper than any insult ever could.

I try to remind myself of who I am. Of what I’m trying to build. The ice cream truck isn’t just a job. It’s a lifeline. My grind. My freedom plan. I stock it, clean it, run it—while he stays in bed, unbothered, unapologetic. My kids come with me, working the window, passing out joy in cones and cups while I keep one eye on traffic and the other on the future.

I hustle. I study for Norfolk State in stolen minutes—on breaks, between stops, at night when everyone else is asleep and I’m dead on my feet. I'm trying to turn this heavy, lonely life into something that means something. Something that won’t leave my kids empty the way I feel most days.

But some days… like today… I just feel fed up.

Fed up with being invisible. With giving and giving while he takes and takes. With waking up sad and going to bed exhausted. With being the backbone while he drifts through life like none of this matters.

I don’t know what hurts more the disrespect or the indifference. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s that no matter how much I do, no matter how loud my silence or how clear my cries, I’m still unseen. Still unheard.

I don’t want to be here ten years from now, still mourning a life that never became mine. Still fighting to be noticed in a place where love was supposed to live.

One day soon, I’m going to leave this chapter behind. Not because I’m weak, but because I finally remembered I matter too.

No Room to Fall

The sun starts to dip low by the time we’re packing up the truck. Another long day of melting heat, sticky fingers, and quick change from the cashbox. The kids are quiet in the back, worn out from the rush, their laughter dulled by the weight of the day.

I hand them what’s left leftover hot dogs wrapped in foil, lukewarm sausages, half-melted candy bars sticking to the plastic, and whatever juice didn’t sell. It’s not perfect, but it’s what we’ve got. They eat without complaining, without asking for more, used to making do just like I am. It breaks my heart every time.

This ain’t luxury. This is survival.

I don’t sit. I don’t rest. I don’t even breathe right until the truck is locked down and I’m behind the wheel again, racing the clock.

I drop the kids off at home, giving out orders with the urgency of someone trying to outrun time “Homework. Wash your hands. No stove. I’ll be back late.” I trust them because I have to. Because I’m running on borrowed hours and a dream I refuse to let die.

I swing down 35th Street, the city blurring around me. These Norfolk streets are familiar tired sidewalks, boarded-up windows, corner kids chasing distraction. The same streets I’ve worked, cried on, fought through. But I won’t die here. I won’t let them.

I park crooked in front of the house, rush in, change my shirt, splash water on my face, grab my books and I’m back out the door in under ten minutes. There’s no pause. No peace. Just motion.

Because failure is not an option.

I don’t have the luxury of falling apart. There’s no one to pick up the pieces but me. No partner. No cushion. Just these babies counting on me, this truck that barely holds together, and the fire inside me that won’t let me quit.

By the time I make it to campus, I’m exhausted but present. I slide into class with minutes to spare, sweat clinging to the back of my neck, body sore from the day. But my mind is alert, sharp, hungry.

I open my notebook. I listen. I write. I absorb every word like it’s gospel because for me, this isn’t just education. This is escape. This is freedom. This is the answer to every “you can’t” I’ve ever heard.

One day, I’ll make it. And when I do, I’ll look back at this chapter and know I didn’t survive it. I owned it.

---

Truth or no truth

A Wonderful Day at McDonald’s
It was supposed to be a perfect day. A rare treat. Growing up, soda and junk food were strictly off-limits. My mother was careful about what I ate, always pushing healthy choices—water instead of cola, home-cooked meals instead of fast food. But on this particular day, the rules were bent.
We went to McDonald’s.

I remember the excitement—the smell of fries in the air, the bright red trays, and the colorful Happy Meal boxes stacked behind the counter. McDonald’s was running their Monopoly promotion, and I was obsessed. Each Happy Meal came with little game pieces—stickers that felt like treasure. I collected them with the seriousness of a young detective chasing clues.
I sat down with my cheeseburger, my fries carefully lined up like little golden soldiers, and my prized soda—the cold, fizzy reward I almost never got. Ketchup pooled on the side of my tray, waiting for fries to dive in. Everything was just right.
Then it happened.
My mother, maybe smiling, maybe just tired, reached across the table and said, “Let me have a sip of your drink.”
It wasn’t a question.
I pulled the cup back sharply and blurted out, “I don’t want to catch anything.”
I was only nine, but already something in me was afraid—afraid of germs, of invisible dangers I couldn’t explain. I didn’t want her to drink from it. At that age, moments like these began shaping my understanding of disease, of boundaries, of how things passed from one person to another. Looking back, this might have been the first time I ever connected love with risk.
The moment froze.
She looked at me, and her smile faded. Her eyes shifted—just slightly, but enough for me to notice. Embarrassment? Sadness? I didn’t know what to call it then, but it washed over me like cold water.
Now, years later, I recognize it: pain. A kind of hurt that looked like rejection, maybe even betrayal, coming from the person she’d made that special day for.
We didn’t talk about it. We finished the meal in silence I didn’t fully understand, but I felt it—an invisible distance sitting between us, just as real as the tray on the table.
It was still a wonderful day at McDonald’s. But it was also the day I learned that even small gestures carry weight—and sometimes, they leave echoes long after the fries are gone.

I also learned something else that day: that honesty, especially when it comes from fear, can still hurt someone. That sometimes, no one really wants to hear how you feel—especially if it conflicts with what they want. And when you're a child, your feelings and fears are often brushed aside, made smaller, because you're “just a kid.” But those feelings stay with you. They shape you.

The Ride Home
The car ride home was quiet.
I don’t remember if the radio was on. I don’t remember if we talked. I only remember the hum of the tires on the road and the heavy feeling in my stomach—not from the food, but from something else. Something heavier.
I stared out the window, watching the world pass by in smears of color. I was still clutching my cup, now mostly filled with melted ice. I didn’t sip it anymore.
In my mind, I feel like I got a spanking that day. I can’t say for sure. My memory blurs in places like that—moments where love and pain got too close to tell apart. Maybe it was later. Maybe it didn’t happen. But something about the way I sat still in the back seat, tense, small, waiting for something—I know that feeling too well.

There were days when my body braced for punishment before it ever came. Days where silence wasn’t peace, but a warning.
I had already learned how to block things out. How to tuck away what scared me, confuse me, hurt me. Not just to forget—but to survive.

By the time we got home, I don’t remember the rest of the day. I don’t remember what I did with the Monopoly pieces. I don’t remember if I watched cartoons, or cried, or stayed in my room.

What I do remember is that this day, like so many others, folded into the shape of something I would carry without even knowing it. A moment that would echo in future silences, in boundaries, in how I handled fear, love, and guilt.

I didn’t know then how that day would follow me.
But it did.
It showed up in ways I couldn’t name until much later—when I pulled back from people without knowing why, when I hesitated to speak a truth at times that might make someone uncomfortable, when I felt guilt just for needing space. I learned, quietly and early, that fear can be punished, that honesty isn’t always welcome, and that love—especially a parent’s—can be fragile when tested. This builtbup anger resentment,  because being unapologetically honest since the womb was a part of me.

I carried the a part of that silence from that car ride into friendships, relationships, even rooms where nothing was wrong. I became good at reading the air, sensing shifts in mood before words were ever spoken. It made me cautious. Made me kind, maybe, but also guarded. I learned to anticipate anger, even when it wasn’t there.
Sometimes I wonder how much of that day really happened the way I remember. Memory is slippery like that—especially when trauma is involved. The mind does what it has to. It seals off what’s too much, blurs the lines, lets the edges go soft. But the feelings? They stay sharp.

And that’s what I trust most now. Not every detail. But the feeling. That moment taught me something I couldn’t unlearn: that love can hurt, even when it’s trying not to.

It became a skill I carried into adulthood without realizing and sometimes behaviors I had to unlearn. Sitting through 

conversations that hurt. Smiling in situations that felt wrong. Going numb instead of speaking up. Disappearing, just enough to keep myself from breaking or breaking others..

The Struggle Within
I was only 9 or 10, but already I could feel myself changing. Not in ways that people could see, but in ways that mattered. I could sense the shift inside me—the way I was learning to avoid conflict at all costs.
When something wasn’t right, I’d say “It’s fine” even when it wasn’t. When I didn’t want to share, I would, because it seemed easier than explaining why I didn’t. If someone asked for something I wasn’t ready to give, I’d stay quiet, even if every part of me screamed to say "no."

It wasn’t about being selfish. It wasn’t even about being mean. It was about avoiding the look. The one my mother had given me that day at McDonald’s. That quiet, painful expression of confusion and hurt. I hated seeing that look. It made me feel like I had done something wrong—like I was wrong for having my own needs, for setting boundaries, for not always wanting to give.
So, I buried those feelings deep inside. I learned to twist the truth, to reshape my responses so I wouldn’t upset anyone. In the back of my mind, I promised myself I’d never be the cause of that hurt again.

The Moment of Truth
One afternoon, a small but significant moment changed everything. My mom handed me the cup. She asked, “Can I have a sip?” And for a split second, I felt a wave of panic rise up inside me. My mind flashed back to that day in McDonald's—how I had recoiled from her, how she had looked at me with surprise and sadness. I didn’t want that again.
But I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t know how to explain that I felt afraid, that sharing my drink felt like sharing a piece of myself that wasn’t ready to be shared. So, I said nothing. I just handed her the cup, even though my fingers trembled around it.
Inside, I was screaming. I didn’t want to share. But I didn’t know how to refuse, either. I was trapped between the need to protect myself and the fear of disappointing her.
The worst part was that I didn’t feel relief when I handed her the drink. Instead, I felt empty. I had betrayed myself. I gave her the cup to keep the peace, to avoid the conflict of saying no—but in doing so, I had learned nothing new. I was still stuck, still terrified of causing any kind of tension.


The Aftermath
I tried to bury the uncomfortable feelings, but they wouldn’t go away. They sat in my chest, like stones, weighing me down. I couldn’t understand why I felt so guilty for something so small. After all, it was just a drink.
But the truth was, it wasn’t just about the drink. It was about everything that came before it. It was about the way I had learned that it was easier to avoid what I didn’t want to, than to risk causing anyone else pain.
At 9, I wasn’t fully aware of the long-lasting impact these lessons would have on me. But I could feel the effects—the internal war between my fear of conflict, the frustration of holding my tongue and  and my desire to keep others from feeling hurt being me seemed to always get me in trouble. I knew, even then, that I had to learn how to find my own voice, even if it meant facing discomfort. Even if it meant letting go of the habit I had developed of saying “yes” when I meant “no.” But believe me this only lasted a few years as you cannot never truly hide who you are but so long while still carrying learned patterns unfortunately  it creates a toxic mix bread of dysfunction.

Vocabulary part 2

 As Nicky, I stand before you today to share a story of pain, one that stems not from a single event but from a series of experiences that shaped me. Imagine being an 8-year-old girl, eager to learn but finding yourself unable to memorize words, pronounce them correctly, or remember their meanings. Every time I couldn’t get it right—every time I stumbled—it felt like I was failing. But the real pain didn’t come from my mistakes. It came from the way those mistakes were punished.

When I couldn’t get a word right, it wasn’t just about the words. It was about the feeling that I wasn’t good enough, the fear that I wasn’t measuring up to the expectations around me. Each time I failed, I felt as though I was letting everyone down. But more than that, it felt like I was letting myself down.

In my home, there was no room for mistakes. Failure wasn’t just a part of learning—it was something that had to be punished. And so, I learned to brace for the inevitable punishment. The switch, the strike—it wasn’t just a physical blow; it was a lesson that reinforced the idea that being imperfect meant you were worthless. I couldn’t fail. I couldn’t be wrong. And when I was, the pain wasn’t just physical—it cut deeper. It became emotional, internalized.

The real lesson I learned, though, wasn’t about words or language—it was about how to survive in a space that made it unsafe to be wrong. And so, I learned how to shut down. I learned how to numb myself. Each blow, each word, each mistake pushed me further into that numbness. The pain still stung, but eventually, it became something I could push aside. I didn’t feel it as deeply anymore. And that, in a twisted way, became my survival tool: numbness.

But here’s the thing—numbness isn’t healing. It’s not growth. It’s survival. It’s how you endure without breaking, but it doesn’t allow you to thrive. It’s how you manage to keep going while shutting down parts of yourself that are too painful to face.

I want to share this with you because, as I stand here today, I realize that the space I was forced into—the one where mistakes were punished rather than embraced—did more than just teach me to survive. It taught me not to give myself grace. It taught me that failing, even a little, was unforgivable. And when you live in that kind of space, it becomes hard to offer yourself any kind of compassion. You become your own harshest critic, forever punishing yourself for things that are just a part of learning, growing, and being human.

What I need you to understand is that this pain, this cycle of harshness and self-criticism, isn't just a physical one—it’s emotional. It’s something that can be carried long after the bruises fade. So, when you see someone struggling, when you witness mistakes being made, remember that the pain they carry may be deeper than what’s on the surface. Give grace where it's needed. Allow space for mistakes. And most importantly, teach yourself and others that being wrong doesn't make us unworthy. It makes us human.

Vocabulary words, Definitions, Sentence Please

Nicky sat at kitchen table after returning from school, the quiet hum of the house surrounding her. She wanted to do homework in peace without any assistance, but the realization of that occurring was not realistic in this world. Her mother stood nearby, handing her the dictionary with a look of quiet determination. "Here," her mother said, her tone calm but firm, "You have your ten words for the week. Read them, memorize them, and then put them in your own definition."

Nicky nodded, feeling the weight of her mother's gaze. A mere second grader, already prepared for what awaits in expectation from someone whose expectation were endless. The words were simple enough, but there was always something about the pressure of it all that made them feel heavier from a child's view. These words—each one pulled from the lessons of Resurrection Catholic elementary School in Chester, PA—felt like a challenge, not just to understand their meaning, but to meet the expectations that seemed to grow with each passing week.

The first few minutes passed in silence as Nicky leafed through the dictionary, trying to grasp the meaning of each word. She scribbled down her own definitions, but the more she tried, the more the words seemed to blur together. Her mind wandered, and she found herself frustrated. The task was never as easy as it seemed. She glanced up at her mother, who was watching with patient expectation, waiting for her to finish.

As time ticked on, Nicky’s pace slowed. She wasn't completing the work fast enough for her mother’s liking. The calmness in her mother’s voice began to fade, replaced by a sharp edge of frustration. "Why isn't this done yet?" her mother asked, her tone now laced with impatience. "You need to work faster, Nicky. Get it done at a pace that’s acceptable to me."

The pressure mounted. Nicky’s hands trembled slightly as she tried to focus, but the words were slipping away from her. She could feel her mother's frustration like a cloud hanging over her, making it harder to concentrate. Each word on the page seemed more difficult to define, more challenging to understand.

And so, the cycle began again. Every week, the same ten words, the same dictionary, the same expectations. Nicky would sit, struggle, and try her best to meet the demands, but no matter how hard she worked, it never seemed to be enough. The words, once just vocabulary lessons, became a reflection of something deeper—a constant loop of trying to prove herself, to show that she was enough, that she could live up to her mother’s vision of success.

But for Nicky, the words weren't just definitions anymore. They were a reminder of the constant pressure she felt, and the frustration that came with each week that passed without her mother seeing the effort she put in. It was as if no matter how much she tried, the weight of expectation would always keep her reaching just beyond her grasp. The relief that today she would allow me to sleep, but the reminder that a ass whooping will follow have I not have those words tomorrow. 

The sun was barely peeking through the blinds the next morning, and Nicky sat at the same kitchen table. The feeling of yesterday still clung to her like a heavy fog. The failure of not getting the words right—the sharp sting of her mother’s disappointment—hadn't left her. Her mind felt foggy, drained, as if the weight of the previous day’s frustration had seeped into her bones.

Her mother entered the kitchen, the same look on her face: calm but expectant, the silent pressure already filling the room. "Well?" her voice sliced through the air, quiet but firm. "Did you practice? Are you ready?"

Nicky nodded, though the truth was, she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready. The words from the day before still rang in her ears, the mispronunciations echoing in her mind. “Sound it out,” her mother’s command from last night played on repeat. "Don't mispronounce it."

Her mother’s gaze never wavered as she set the dictionary on the table in front of Nicky. “You know the drill. Let’s see if you can get it right today."

Nicky’s heart sank. It felt like she hadn’t even had time to breathe since the night before. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how many times she practiced the words, she knew that her mother wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection. Yesterday had been hard enough, but today, she feared, would be worse. She felt the familiar tightness in her chest, the gnawing sense of failure clawing at her insides before she even started.

She picked up the first word, trying to focus, trying to push away the anxiety that was creeping up. She sounded it out, but it came out wrong. It always did. The moment the mistake left her mouth, she saw her mother’s face tighten.

“Again,” her mother said coldly, her patience already wearing thin.

Nicky’s throat tightened, but she did it again. And again. But each time, the words escaped her in the wrong way, like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. The anger in her mother’s voice grew. “Why can’t you get this right? How many times do I have to tell you?”

The words felt like daggers, cutting deeper than before. Nicky’s mind was spinning, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. With each misstep, the small shred of hope she’d been holding onto from yesterday slipped further away. Her fear of disappointing her mother, of never being good enough, loomed over her like a dark cloud. It wasn’t just about the words anymore—it was about her. About who she was and who she was failing to become.

Her mother’s voice cracked through the silence, sharp and unforgiving. “You’re wasting my time, Nicky. You should know this by now.”

That was all it took. With each rebuke, Nicky could feel a part of herself withdraw, a part of her spirit fading, feeling smaller with each attempt. The frustration, the shame, the suffocating feeling of inadequacy—all of it consumed her.

In those moments, Nicky couldn’t see the purpose of all this, couldn’t understand why she had to go through it again and again. It was just a set of words. But the way they made her feel—the way she felt in her mother’s eyes—made everything seem impossible. She was tired, so tired of trying and failing, but it didn’t matter. Her mother’s expectations loomed like a wall, and Nicky was left feeling like she could never climb over it.

And so, the cycle continued. Another day, another round of trying to meet a mark that felt impossible to reach. Every failure, every mispronounced word, left Nicky feeling more disconnected from herself, like something inside her was breaking. And no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she wanted to believe she could do it, the fear of not being good enough, of never living up to her mother’s expectations, lingered, a constant reminder of how far she still had to go.

The sun had barely risen, casting a pale light over the kitchen as Nicky sat at the table, her eyes downcast. Her mother was already there, her gaze cold and unyielding as she looked at Nicky’s attempts, already knowing that the words hadn’t been mastered. The atmosphere felt thick, suffocating, like the air itself was waiting for something to break.

Nicky’s mother stood up, her voice breaking the silence with an icy sharpness. “Go outside,” she said, her tone low but stern. “Go get the switch from out back. And make sure it makes the sound.”

Nicky’s stomach turned, her heart sinking into the pit of her chest. She’d heard the phrase before, had known this moment would come one day, but the weight of it, the finality of her mother’s command, felt like a stone crushing her spirit. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave the table, but she knew she had no choice. Her mother’s eyes were already locked on her, demanding compliance.

Reluctantly, Nicky stood and walked out the door, her feet dragging with each step. The yard felt endless, the air heavy, and the sky above her seemed to close in. She made her way to the back of the house, her mind clouded with dread, knowing what was coming. The switch, thin and sharp, lay waiting in the bushes, as if it too had been prepared for this moment. Nicky reached down and grabbed it, the wooden rod cold in her hand. She could almost hear it whispering, the threat it held in its thinness, how it would sting with each strike.

She took it back inside, her hands trembling, the switch feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. Her mother was still seated at the kitchen table, unmoving, her eyes locked on Nicky with a cold intensity that made her blood run cold.

"Now make sure it makes the sound," her mother said again, her voice flat. Nicky knew what she meant—the sound of the switch cutting through the air, the sound of punishment, of pain.

The first strike came without warning. The pain sliced through Nicky’s skin like fire, and for a moment, everything went still. The sharp sting of it didn’t just hit her body, it hit her soul. The tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Her mother’s face remained emotionless, the act of it all mechanical, as if it were just another part of the routine. Another failure. Another lesson.

As the next strike came, Nicky felt her heart race. But with each lash of the switch, something inside her began to change. The sting, the burn—it hurt, yes, but it also began to numb her. The pain became a distant echo, something she could feel but not fully absorb. It was as if the more she felt, the less she truly felt. Each strike pushed her further away from the pain, until she was almost detached, her body responding like an automatic reflex, her mind retreating to a safer place. In that moment, she learned something she hadn’t expected to learn: that sometimes, the best survival tool you had wasn’t strength, but numbness.

The pain was still there, sharp and unrelenting, but in the distance of that numbness, Nicky found a kind of escape, a way to endure without truly breaking. It wasn’t healing—it wasn’t even survival in the truest sense. But it was the only way she could continue. It was how she managed to make it through the storm without losing herself completely.

As the blows continued, she found herself slipping further and further into that numbness, unable to feel anything more than the cold, unyielding force of it all. In that space, the world felt distant, like she was observing it from a place far away, untouchable, safe in her own detached silence.

That day, Nicky learned the many forms that pain could take. And in that moment, she learned that sometimes, being numb was the only way to survive.

Embrace Transformation

I Journey used to view change as something that pierced my soul with fear. The discomfort of starting over, not knowing what it would look like, assuming what it might feel like, left me tangled in the pain I had carried for so long. I questioned my abilities, held down by the unease that clung to me like railroad tracks. I let my lack of confidence and past traumas be the train that pushed me deeper into discomfort.

Change once felt like a shadow, a fear that seeped into my very being. The roads ahead were unfamiliar, the unknown daunting. A new beginning felt like a heavy burden, like trying to start a story with blank pages, unable to find the spark to ignite it.

The "what ifs" gripped me with tension, and I was trapped in the darkness. My traumas clung to me like leeches, sucking me dry. My dreams were trapped, longing for light. My abilities were in question, my mind too fragile and broken to rise to the occasion, and pity became my escape. The weight of past wounds kept me shackled, as if bound by railroad ties. I let my pain steer me, the train of doubt running wild, leading me further into fear and despair. I couldn’t see the power within me. I didn’t know I was just a shadow of who I wanted to be.

But change—it’s not a monster to fear. It’s the spark that ignites the path forward, an opportunity to heal, rise, and grow. It’s a chance to release what has held me back, a journey that I knew would spark pain in others, but one I had to make.

Within the discomfort lies rebirth, the shedding of old burdens, embracing the lessons learned through pain. It’s a journey toward my truest self, where fear no longer holds sway, and purpose fills the space where doubt once resided.