How I Became Me

my story really started when i was five.

that was the first time i learned what it felt like to be made small.
kids picked apart everything about me. how i talked, how i thought, how i felt.
they even talked about my sexuality before i even understood what it meant.
my weight. my body. they called me “not so quick,” like my name was something to laugh at.

all things i couldn’t control.

so i learned early to hide the parts of me that hurt the most.
not because they were wrong, but because they were the real me,
and i didn’t want that light touched or taken.

writing became the one place i could put the things i didn’t know how to say out loud.

i’ve always spoken directly in conversations, but on paper i told the truth in a different way.
quietly. indirectly. in between the lines. it was the only space where i could breathe.

as i got older,
i became the helper, the listener, the fixer.
the person people trusted when they were falling apart.
i spent years in mental health work, pouring myself into others through crisis calls and long nights most people never see.
i care deeply about anti bullying, about mental health, about protecting people from the things that shaped me too young.

what i didn’t realize was how much it was costing me.

within the last few years, something in me started to crack.
i felt drained from giving so much without anything filling me back up. it felt like people kept taking from a well that was already dry.
i kept going anyway. i pushed through shifts, dissociated when things got overwhelming, and watched myself wilt while pretending i was fine, because i didn’t know what else to do.

on top of this,
i’ve had more falls, blows to the head, and accidents in my life than i can count on two hands.
they left me with short and long-term memory loss that still affects me today. i forget things. i lose my place. i misplace time. and for a long time, i blamed myself for it, like it made me less. it took me years to realize it was just another part of the story i never got to tell.

writing became the only honest place left. late at night, when the world was quiet and i finally had room to feel, the words showed up. not pretty. not polished. just real. and for once, i didn’t have to hide.

my story isn’t about being healed.
it’s about learning how to stop disappearing. it’s about holding the kid i used to be, protecting the light i tried so hard to keep alive, and figuring out how to live as a whole person after years of surviving, instead of living.

i grew up in fairbanks. i’m here now in buckeye. both places shaped me. both live in me. and somewhere between them, i’m learning who i actually am. and now, i’m not trying to become someone new.

i’m becoming the person i needed when i was five,
when i was hurting, when i was hiding, when i was giving myself away just to stay afloat.
i’m learning how to show up for him now. that’s the real story.

that’s the part that matters.