A peak at chapter 2

Chapter Two: The Infant / The Toddler

Some of my earliest years are more felt than remembered. Memory is tricky like that. It hides what it thinks is too much to carry, but the body remembers. My body has always remembered.

My biological father abandoned me before I was old enough to understand the word. What I didn’t know in my mind, I carried in my cells—an ache of rejection I couldn’t name, but that lived in me all the same. My mother, strong and independent, taught me survival by doing it herself. I admired her strength even as I longed for the softness of being held close.

When a violent stepfather entered the picture, fear became the language of my childhood. I can’t recall every scene, but the imprint remains. Raised voices, sudden movements, the sharp edge of mistrust—I learned to read a room before I even knew how to spell my own name.

That kind of beginning leaves marks. It gave me an empathy I wouldn’t trade—I can sense the unspoken pain in others—but it also left me carrying an undercurrent of anxiety and doubt that I have wrestled with my whole life.

Writing this chapter was one of the hardest parts of my book. Not because I could remember every detail, but because the shadows still echo. To put those years into words meant allowing myself to feel them again. It was like walking barefoot across ground that still held shards of glass.

But here’s the truth I keep learning: silence never heals. Naming the pain doesn’t erase it, but it loosens its grip.

Chapter Two isn’t just about the infant or the toddler I once was—it’s about the way those earliest imprints shaped me. It’s about the gap between what I longed for and what I lived through, and how both taught me what it means to endure.

If you’ve ever felt shaped by wounds you can’t quite remember but can’t seem to shake, I hope these words remind you that you’re not alone.