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On Monday, November 26, 1990, a beautiful 7-pound, 14-ounce baby girl entered the world to two parents who loved her deeply. I was born with a full head of hair and a perfect little button nose.
Shortly after my birth, doctors discovered that both of my feet were turned inward. During my first year of life, I wore casts and corrective shoes to straighten them. Despite the rocky start, I was a happy, healthy baby.
I was brought home to our three-bedroom house in Reisterstown, Maryland. My dad owned a construction company, and my mom stayed home to raise me. From the outside, we looked like the picture of the average American family.
I was surrounded by love. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—I grew up with a big family who adored me.
Then, on May 8, 1993, my beautiful baby sister was born. Our family felt complete.
For a little while, life was good.
Until it wasn’t.
From the outside, we looked like the perfect little family. Behind closed doors, though, a very different story was unfolding.
My mom struggled with severe, untreated mental illness. She refused to seek help and instead tried to numb her pain with marijuana. As her illness worsened, so did the chaos inside our home.
She became physically violent toward my dad. She would erupt in anger without warning, screaming at grocery store clerks, strangers, or anyone who crossed her path. Home rarely felt peaceful.
My dad did everything he could to shield my sister and me from the fighting. He stood between us and the chaos for as long as he could.
But in 1994, he reached a breaking point.
I still remember the day he left.
I was only four years old, sitting on the front porch, watching my dad carry his bags to the car. I cried as he walked away.
I was a daddy’s girl through and through. I adored him.
He was my safe place.
And in that moment, I didn’t understand why my safe place was leaving.