My younger years were… lacking, especially when it came to my parents doing their job of actually raising me. A lot of the time, I was left in the care of my older sisters. When I wasn’t, I kept myself busy—playing with friends or making new ones with the neighbors. I learned pretty early how to entertain myself and how to belong wherever I landed.
Once my parents separated and my siblings eventually fled the house, I started the back-and-forth between Mom and Dad. Mom kept the house I grew up in for a while before we had to move. Dad moved too… honestly, I have no idea where he lived after that. That part is still fuzzy.
Every single night, my prayers ended the same way—tears, bargaining, and begging whatever was up there to bring my mom and dad back together. I prayed for that until I was fourteen. Fourteen. That hope stuck around longer than it probably should have.
I loved my time with my dad. When he dropped me off, I missed him so much that I would count the days until I got to see him again. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my mom—I loved her more than anything—but there was always a disconnect between us. No matter how hard I tried to show her I loved her, I never felt like I had her approval or that I was a priority.
Dad’s love came easily. He and I had a bond that felt firm and safe. Anything and everything I did made him smile, and I lived for that smile. I lived for his approval. It felt good to be seen that way—to feel like I mattered without having to earn it.
Looking back, I can see how these years quietly shaped what I believed about love, approval, and my place in the world. I didn’t have words for it then—but it was already becoming part of me.
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