Inked Soul: Echoes

Episode Two: Foundation

To understand someone—to truly understand them—you have to strip away every mask, every defense they've carefully built. It's like peeling back layers of old paint, exposing what's beneath, even the parts that have chipped and cracked over time. Beneath the surface is where their story begins—at the foundation. I think of people like houses. Some are cozy, modest cottages, unassuming but warm, where everything feels simple, like home. Others are sprawling mansions, grand and intimidating, filled with locked doors and winding hallways. But regardless of size or grandeur, every house relies on a foundation. And without a solid one, no structure—no life—can withstand what the world throws at it.

Childhood is that foundation. It lies beneath everything else, unseen but essential, bearing the weight of what comes after. Like the base of a house, it absorbs life's pressure, spreading the burden so the walls don't crack when the seasons change or the storms hit. Some people are fortunate, raised on rock-solid foundations built brick by brick with care and love. But others—like me—start with foundations full of cracks, fissures spreading through every corner before they've even had a chance to harden. Those cracks don't disappear with time. They linger, surfacing when life's inevitable hardships hit—when a breakup leaves you in pieces or a careless word drags you back to being a child, aching for validation.

Every layer we add throughout life builds on what came before. Some people grow steadily, their experiences stacking neatly into something stable. Others struggle to hold it together, battling each day to patch what was broken the day before. A strong foundation protects you, like a house shielding its inhabitants from rain and wind. But a fractured one? It leaves you vulnerable to every storm. With each insult, every heartbreak, the structure shakes, and you live braced for collapse, always waiting for the next blow. No matter how far you think you've come, the fear of falling never really leaves.

Foundations can rot, too. When love is absent in childhood—when you grow up feeling unseen or unwanted—it's like mold creeping into the walls, spreading slowly but relentlessly. You can paint over it with achievements, relationships, or distractions, but the damage is there, waiting to break through. Unhealed pain hardens into anger, anger twists into bitterness, and bitterness becomes a dull ache that follows you everywhere, no matter how far you run.

Stability—true, unwavering stability—is something not everyone gets. A strong foundation in childhood means security, knowing there's always a place where you belong, no matter how badly you stumble. It's about structure—rules that help make sense of a chaotic world, providing guidance when everything else feels overwhelming. Without that structure, life feels like walking a tightrope—constantly balancing, knees bent, ready to catch yourself at any moment. But living like that is exhausting. Eventually, it wears you down, leaving you hollow and brittle, as though the slightest gust of wind could break you.

A good foundation also provides warmth. In a house, a barrier separates the cold ground from the warmth inside, ensuring it stays livable. Childhood should serve the same purpose—a buffer against life's cruelties, made of bedtime stories, whispered reassurances, and gentle reminders that you are enough. Without that warmth, life becomes a bitter, endless winter. Each step stings, each breath burns, and no matter what you do, you can't seem to get warm.

I was born into a house without a plan—a patchwork of hopes held together by two teenagers trying to build something they didn't understand. My parents met in high school, a whirlwind romance that began with dreams bigger than either of them could handle. But dreams tend to shatter when real life gets in the way. My brother Derek arrived before they could figure out who they were or what they wanted from the world. That was the first crack in the foundation they were trying to lay. Three years later, I came along, dropped into a life already teetering on the edge of collapse.