Born into Chaos, Built for Strength.
Childhood is supposed to be simple.
It’s supposed to be filled with belly laughs and scraped knees, bedtime stories and soft blankets, the kind of innocence where the biggest fear is whether the nightlight is bright enough.
But that wasn’t my childhood.
My childhood was loud. Heavy. Unpredictable.
It was watching adults crumble while pretending to be okay.
It was moving from house to house like a ghost, never fully unpacking because somewhere deep down, I knew—we wouldn’t be there long. It was alcohol on breath instead of lullabies. It was music blasting not because people were happy, but because they were trying to drown something out.
It was learning that joy and chaos can sound the same from the outside, but feel completely different when you’re living inside it.
One of the clearest memories burned into me is of my mom… quietly hiding things under my bed.
At first, I thought she was just being strange—tucking away little things like snacks, a toothbrush, socks. But as the tension in the house thickened, the stash grew. Canned food. Soap. Extra clothes. It was like watching a storm roll in, but instead of thunder, it came in the form of preparation.
I didn’t fully understand it then. But I understood enough.
Other kids were picking out their favorite pajamas. I was memorizing what items were under my bed in case I had to grab them fast.
And then—Inevitably—the moment would come.
Her voice would shake, but her words were firm.
“It’s time.”
No matter if it was 2 p.m. or 2 a.m., I knew exactly what that meant. My heart would start pounding before my feet even hit the floor. We didn’t pack suitcases, we packed escape plans. We grabbed whatever we could carry, shoved it in the backseat, and drove off into the night.
Another house gone. Another “home” abandoned before it even had the chance to become one.
It wasn’t the first time.
It wouldn’t be the last.
Living that way does something to you.
When you grow up in chaos, you don’t learn to play — you learn to scan. The second you walk into a room, your body goes on high alert. You read voices. You track footsteps. You learn which floorboards creak and which silences are dangerous. You don’t learn to trust calm, because calm usually comes right before the storm.
I didn’t grow up carefree.
I grew up on guard.
Even now, as an adult, those old instincts live in my bones.
Anxiety. Hypervigilance. The constant, aching awareness that everything good could be taken without warning.
But here’s the part no one talks about:
Survival may have been my childhood, but it won’t be my legacy.
The chaos taught me to be alert.
But the wounds taught me to be different.
To build a life I don’t have to run from.
To make my children’s bed a bed, not a hiding place.
To become the stability I didn’t have.
I didn’t grow up safe.
But I’m growing into someone powerful.
And that, right there, is my redemption.