I grew up in a house where yelling lived in the walls—
not visited, not passing through—
it lived there,
paid rent in broken plates and slammed doors.
Anger came quick, like winter.
No warning. No coat.
Just cold hands
throwing fits like snowballs—
packed tight, aimed well,
meant to sting,
meant to leave something behind.
Doors didn't close—
they announced themselves.
SLAM.
Like punctuation on a sentence nobody wanted to finish.
Walls didn't stand—
they surrendered.
Once to a fist.
Once to my brother's head.
And I learned early
that even houses can flinch.
There was a person
who called me daughter.
Say that word soft—
daughter—
it should sound like safety,
like lullabies,
like someone checking under your bed
and telling you nothing's there.
But for me,
it became something sharp.
Something I still can't hold without bleeding.
Something that does not forgive
and does not forget.
My mother—
she worked herself down to bone and breath,
hands cracked open by survival,
trying to build something whole
while something else
was breaking us quietly
behind her back.
And I don't blame her—
but I carry it.
I learned early
that voices can bruise.
That hands don't just hold—
they decide
who gets to feel safe
and who learns how to survive without it.
I suffered—
not loudly,
not in ways anyone could point to—
but in a silence
so full
it echoed.
I grew up in a house
where power was measured
in volume
and damage.
And somehow—
somehow—
my mind kept reaching.
Stretching past the noise,
past the fear,
past the why is this happening to me?
Growing faster than my body could follow,
trying to understand
what no child should ever have to translate.
So I taught myself—
how to love.
Not the kind you're given—
the kind you build
with shaking hands.
I learned how to hold my own hand
through the scariest parts of life,
how to whisper to myself,
"stay,"
when everything in me wanted to run.
I learned how to comfort myself
through nights that stretched too long,
through days that felt heavy before they even began.
My heart kept breaking—
quietly, repeatedly—
until my body said,
"enough,"
and turned itself to stone.
Tell me—
what is love?
Is it really unconditional?
Or is that just something we say
to make broken things sound beautiful?
How can I carry something so delicate inside me,
something so soft,
and still not trust it
not to disappear?
How do I breathe
when my shoulders are always bracing
for impact?
I tried.
God, I tried.
I love my family—
I do—
but I learned something
no one ever wants to admit out loud:
Sometimes
love
is not enough.
I learned early
what no child should.
I cried—
until I didn't.
And when the tears stopped,
they didn't leave—
they changed.
They hardened.
They burned.
They became rage.
And I wore it—
loud, messy,
unapologetic—
because at least rage
felt like power.
Once, a therapist told me
she didn't know
how I was still sane.
She was right.
I should have broken.
But I didn't...
I became something else.
