Chapter One: Survival in Silence
At seventeen, I was the oldest of seven children. That alone felt like a job no one could prepare you for. While most girls my age were worried about prom or what to wear on the weekend, I was figuring out how to stretch a loaf of bread and keep my siblings from fighting while my mom worked long hours just to keep us afloat.
My mother—strong, tired, always in survival mode—was doing the best she could with the little she had. I could see the pain in her eyes every time she came home late, her body worn out from trying to give us a life that felt just out of reach. She wanted the best for us, and I tried my hardest to honor her wishes: to go to school, to help with the kids, to keep things together. But it was never easy.
Me and my siblings got along sometimes, but other times we were just too tired, too hungry, or too overwhelmed to be patient with each other. I often felt like I was carrying the world on my shoulders, and they didn’t always understand what that felt like—being their second mom, without ever being asked if I was ready for that role.
My mom had a boyfriend at the time. In the beginning, he felt like a father figure. He’d step in, offer advice, help around the house—it seemed like he cared. But that mask began to slip. Slowly, almost like a fog creeping in. He started complaining about little things: a dirty dish, a noisy room, a toy left out. Every complaint turned into a lecture, and every lecture gave my mom another reason to snap at us. No matter what we did, it felt like it was never good enough. Especially for him.
And as things worsened at home, I began clinging to anything that felt like peace. Sometimes that was a best friend. Sometimes it was a boyfriend. I didn’t care who it was—I just knew that whenever I had someone to attach myself to, the chaos quieted down. I could breathe. I didn’t have to be the strong one, or the protector, or the fixer. I could just be a girl, even if only for a moment.
My best friend was my lifeline. I spent as much time as I could at her house. Her life was hard too, maybe even harder than mine. But together, we found comfort in sharing stories, in venting, in laughing through the pain. We knew how to console each other in ways no one else could. That bond saved me more times than I can count.
School, on the other hand, felt like a battlefield. Gossip, bullying, whispers behind my back—it became too much. I started skipping classes altogether. It wasn’t worth the emotional toll. Me and my sister would walk miles to get there, even in the rain. Our clothes soaked, our spirits drained, and still, we were expected to sit in class like everything was normal. Those walks were the worst—cold, long, and silent. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. We both knew what we were walking into, and what we were walking away from.
One day, the pressure at home became unbearable. I remember it so vividly. I was at school when I suddenly collapsed. My body gave out. I had been holding in too much for too long. The pain, the fear, the anxiety—it all boiled over. I was taken to the hospital, and I knew in that moment that I had a chance to speak up. To tell the counselor everything. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
When my mom arrived, I looked at her and saw worry in her eyes—real concern. But I still couldn’t bring myself to speak the truth. I made up a story about being dehydrated, about skipping breakfast. Anything to cover up what was really happening. The truth was locked inside of me, too scared to come out.
I didn’t tell her what was going on in that house. I didn’t tell her how I felt invisible, unheard, and slowly breaking apart. I didn’t tell her how her boyfriend’s words cut deeper than anyone knew. I was too scared. Too loyal. Too tired.
That hospital bed became a symbol of everything I had buried—everything I wasn’t ready to face. And even then, at my weakest, I still felt the need to protect everyone else. But no one was protecting me.
