I’ve lived through many experiences that left me haunted by memories at different points in my life. One of the early fears was my father knowing where we lived; just the thought unsettled me. But over time, that fear faded, replaced by other realities.


One memory stands out from my preteen years, back in early grade school. I would sit at home, waiting by the lounge window, looking out and hoping my mom would come home soon, hoping she was safe, that they hadn’t fought. We lived in a corner house then, our second home after my parents had finally separated. The first was just a flat down the street. Around that time, my mother had just gotten her driver’s license, and we’d rent movies together. I’d usually finish the chocolate-covered nuts before we even got to the car.


I remember another day vividly: leaving school and seeing two of my mom’s assistants waiting outside. My heart sank, and I ran home as fast as I could.


These houses I grew up in—did they bear witness to more memories like mine? I wonder if others feel the same tightness in their stomachs when they think of places tied to painful moments.


In our home before the separation, I remember running to my parents' room and finding everything broken and in disarray. But that memory no longer holds the same clarity or sting it once did.


Still, these memories left me hypervigilant. I notice it especially when watching movies or shows, seeing how people aren’t always aware of their surroundings. It hit me that this hyper-awareness could be a response to trauma and perhaps even some neurodivergence.


Being around my parents heightens this alertness again, and I find myself sensitive to sounds—doors or cupboards banging can feel overwhelming. There are likely still so many ways I react from a place of unhealed wounds, affecting how I relate to myself, others, and my environment.


I don’t know how many layers of my “trauma onion” I still need to peel. Some things I may not be ready to process yet, but right now, it’s less about specific memories and more about the enduring sense of unsafety I carry. Feeling unsafe just to be myself—to voice my thoughts or live my truth when my caregivers can’t understand or accept me—takes a toll. Balancing empathy for their situation with my unmet needs can be exhausting. In that space, I still try to focus on building the life I want at my own pace, though it’s challenging.


There are moments I’ve compared my life to others and felt the weight of unfairness, seeing the ease with which some seem to live. But comparing doesn’t serve me. Just as the redwood and the rose grow in their own ways, I need to accept my own unique growth and beauty.


That’s the life I want—to live in a state where I honor my path, challenges, and purpose, putting my energy into what I can control. I hope we can all find that space.