I was always a happy child. Even though my parents divorced when I was just four months old, and my mother and I were essentially on our own, I somehow carried a sense of joy with me. My father remarried when I was very young—I don’t even remember meeting his wife before their wedding. It never seemed strange at the time, but looking back now, it feels a little odd. When I was five, my brother was born, and two years later, my sister joined our family. Life kept moving forward, even if it was complicated.
My mother remarried when I was six, and I remember that time vividly. I was devastated. At her wedding, I sobbed uncontrollably, claiming I was crying out of happiness, when in truth, I was heartbroken. I never truly connected with my stepdad, and that tension has lasted into adulthood. Reflecting now, I realize these early experiences—the fractured family dynamics, the pressure of adjusting to new relationships, and constant emotional uncertainty—likely contributed to my later struggles with anxiety and depression, though I couldn’t understand it at the time.
In seventh grade, I was diagnosed with ADHD and put on a significant dose of medication. Academically, it helped—I could focus and complete my work—but emotionally, it seemed to make things worse. My mother later remarked that I seemed like a “zombie,” and though I didn’t notice it then, she was probably right. By the time I was 16 and entering my junior year of high school, I felt I needed a fresh start. I asked my dad, who lived in Colorado Springs, if I could finish high school with him. He welcomed the idea, and I was thrilled at the thought of joining his household.
The summer started well, and the school year began on a hopeful note. But soon, my dad’s health began to decline. Years earlier, he had survived an IED explosion while deployed in Afghanistan, sustaining a traumatic brain injury, yet he had recovered remarkably. In 2010, he started experiencing severe stomach pain, and doctors discovered extensive scar tissue in his small intestine—likely from the IED. He required hospitalization, and life at home shifted dramatically. My stepmother’s bitterness intensified in his absence, and her patience with my younger siblings and me often snapped into rage.
I tried desperately to stay out of trouble, but her anger often found me anyway. I vividly recall her saying she expected a terrible relationship with me because she had one with her first husband’s daughter. On one occasion, she accused me of stealing her wedding ring and even threatened to make me take a lie detector test. While it never happened, the anxiety of simply being home became suffocating. The best part of my day was being dropped off at school. Even the short car ride home triggered mild panic attacks—I would fight back tears and pretend everything was fine.
Things escalated when my brother began fabricating stories to further pit my stepmother against me. A minor incident—a pimple on his chin my dad had popped—turned into me being screamed at in a hospital parking lot for supposedly hurting him. Watching her scream and curse at her own children was equally painful. My sister, diagnosed with autism and ADHD, and my brother, also with ADHD, were often rowdy, struggling academically, but her outbursts only made life more tense. I try to understand her now as a mother myself, but at the time, her anger felt overwhelming and unjust.
By the end of the semester, I knew I couldn’t stay. The breaking point came at Christmas. I had spent time finding her a meaningful gift, and in return, she gave me a self-help book on how to stop lying. That moment cemented my decision: I needed to return to my mom. Gathering my withdrawal forms from school, saying goodbye to supportive teachers and friends, and preparing to leave Colorado was emotional. My mom and stepdad drove from Texas to bring me home, and I cried the entire way, feeling both guilt and relief.
Back home, I tried to adjust, but tragedy struck again during my senior year, 2011–2012. My dad suffered a massive stroke while preparing for deployment—a devastating injury with permanent effects. Visiting him over Thanksgiving break was heart-wrenching. They had removed half his skull to relieve brain swelling, yet he remained in good spirits, joking and laughing, mostly coherent. Later, after graduation, my mom and I visited him at a residential rehab facility. It was a wonderful, bittersweet experience, as it would be the last time I saw him. By July 2022, it would have been ten years.
College brought new challenges. The first semester went smoothly until my first serious breakup left me utterly heartbroken. Depression set in quickly—I stopped eating, slept constantly, skipped classes, and lost 13 pounds in two weeks. Slowly, with support from friends, I began to re-emerge. But by my second year, unexplained sadness returned. A depression screening revealed mild to severe depression, which confirmed my feelings but left me unsure how to proceed.
In 2013, my grandfather passed unexpectedly. I had never lost anyone close before, and it was crushing. Attempts at college and work became increasingly overwhelming. I switched jobs multiple times, trying to find stability and purpose. When I was 22, my mom enrolled me in a phlebotomy program. It was demanding, but I began to find enjoyment and direction. After passing my certification exam, I discovered I was pregnant. Though scared, I was also excited, and so was my boyfriend. We continued to work, saved money, and eventually moved into a house of our own. My family’s reaction was mixed; my conservative stepdad cut me off entirely, and my mom was disappointed, but I tried to understand their perspective.
Eventually, we married, and two weeks later welcomed our beautiful son. My husband went back to school while I stayed home with our newborn. I loved my son, but the isolation weighed heavily. On pregnancy Medicaid, with a dismissive doctor, I suffered in silence. When my son turned one, I started classes again and discovered a course that ignited my passion for criminal justice. Soon after, I put him in full-time daycare, resumed campus classes, and even took a job on campus. I felt alive again. In August 2020, despite the pandemic challenges, I earned my associate’s degree.
By January 2021, I was attending school online at Sam Houston State University and sending my son to daycare nearby. However, unresolved family tensions weighed on me. When my stepmother discovered my son, I called to explain, expecting anger—but her response was immediate and harsh. She blamed me entirely for past events and refused to take responsibility for her actions. My father spoke briefly, but it was clear he barely remembered being a grandfather.
Around the same time, I reached a breaking point with my stepdad, whose constant criticism—including comments about my son’s weight—triggered painful memories of my own adolescence. After discussing it with my mom, I sought professional counseling. On April 8, 2021, I had my first session. It was liberating. For the first time, I felt truly heard, and I have continued therapy regularly ever since.
Balancing school, ADHD, and family stress has been challenging, but with additional support, including Wellbutrin prescribed through a mental health app, I’ve begun to notice positive changes. There are still hard days, but I’m learning to stand up for myself and advocate for my son’s well-being. I am grateful for a supportive partner, the stability of mental health care, and the chance to actively shape a better future for my child and myself. These steps, small as they may seem, are the foundation of lasting healing and hope.
