I am seventeen and sometimes I still feel like that scared little girl who learned way too early that some adults do not know how to protect the children they say they love.

I grew up with my grandma. She was warm and affectionate and she adored me in ways that made my childhood feel safe most of the time. But when I was seven something traumatic happened while I was with my father. I was too young to understand it, too young to even know the name of what happened to my body. I just carried the fear with me. It settled into my chest and grew into anxiety that I did not know how to explain.

Since you loved this post, you might enjoy these too:
• Small Steps, Big Progress: How Tiny Habits Can Bring Cautious Optimism Back into Your Life
• The Masochist's Confession: I'm a Needy Lover, and I'm Finally Finding Someone Who Gets Me
• From Loneliness to Grounded: How I Found Hope in the Darkest Moments
• Unlocking the Power of Small Wins: How 1 Tiny Habit Can Change Your Life


Twelve years later I finally told my mother. I had been holding that truth for more than half my life. Her reaction still echoes in my head. She said that if I had not said anything it was my problem. Then she walked into the kitchen to make lunch for my brother and asked if I was hungry. She was not being cruel. She is emotionally immature and she genuinely had no idea how to process something that heavy. But it still hurt. I think a part of me hoped she would stop everything and hold me the way I needed.

The next day my boyfriend who I have been with for years now showed up at my door. He handed me a plushie, a bag of McDonald’s, and this quiet gentle comfort that made me cry in a different way. He did not need to say much. He just let me feel safe. That moment meant more to me than anything my mother could have said.

Months later I learned that my grandma had gone through something similar when she was five. My great grandmother, who was apparently a force of nature, confronted the monster, beat them, and made sure everyone in the community knew exactly what they had done.

It was the nineteen fifties and she refused to let it be a secret. Hearing that story broke me a little because it made me realize something painful. When I told my mom I was not asking her to fight anyone. I was not asking for revenge or gifts or attention. I just wanted a hug. I wanted her to choose me the way my great grandmother chose her daughter.

The more I learned about my family the more complicated everything became. My grandma had allowed my mom’s brother to violate both my aunt and my mom when they were children. My mom was only four or five. There is a six year age gap between my mom and her sister and a nine year gap between my mom and her brother. My uncle hurt them both, maybe even more than once, and my grandma brushed it off as boys will be boys.

My mother grew up believing it was normal and something she had to hide. Nobody outside the immediate family knew. My grandpa was not a good man in many ways. He had been in jail, drank heavily, smoked constantly, possibly cheated, but even he had boundaries. When he found out what his son had done he dragged him into the yard and beat him. My uncle was thirteen. Old enough to know better. Old enough to understand what he had caused. They never had a relationship after that.

As I got older and my mom started opening up about what she had lived through I felt my relationship with my grandma fading. I could not hold love for someone who had allowed that kind of harm to happen to her own daughters. Through guilt trips and manipulation my grandparents stayed in my life until last year when I finally stepped away. My mom still sends her a Christmas card because she feels guilty and because it is her mother, but my grandma is a pathological liar who would protect my uncle at the expense of anyone else. I have never met my aunt or my uncle since I was born. Thankfully nothing ever happened to me or my sister because he was out of our lives before I turned two.

I am not sharing this for sympathy or validation. I am sharing this because I need people to understand something simple and important. Believe your children. Believe the children in your life. Listen to them when they tell you something that scares them or confuses them or hurts them. A hug can save a life. A hug can protect a childhood. A hug can be the difference between healing and carrying a wound for years.

If you read this far, thank you.

Posts you may like too:
• Small Steps, Big Progress: How Tiny Habits Can Bring Cautious Optimism Back into Your Life
• The Masochist's Confession: I'm a Needy Lover, and I'm Finally Finding Someone Who Gets Me
• From Loneliness to Grounded: How I Found Hope in the Darkest Moments
• Unlocking the Power of Small Wins: How 1 Tiny Habit Can Change Your Life
• From Uncertainty to Opportunity: Embracing the Art of Positive Planning
• Embracing Calm: My Tiny Habit of Grounding Myself in the Chaos
• Rebuilding Hope: Embracing Uncertainty and Learning to Plan for a Brighter Tomorrow
• Silencing the Noise: Breaking Free from Dating Expectations and Finding My Own Future
• Rebuilding Hope: The Slow and Steady Path to Healing After Life's Crumbling Walls
• Beyond the Surface: Unpacking the Messy Reality of Self-Care and Human Motives