Notes from the Sideline

My Ma was tough in ways most people will never understand. Not because she wanted to be. Because she had to be. My Ma loved music—whether she was playing an instrument or just listening with her whole heart, it lit her up. I love music too. Maybe that’s something she passed down to me. Maybe that’s how she kept a part of herself alive through the hard times. You’d never guess that behind the soft eyes and warm laugh was a girl who ran from unspeakable pain at 15 years old. A girl who survived things she never should’ve had to endure. Who carried more than her share… and somehow still found a way to give love to her kids. She raised us with whatever she had, even when it wasn’t much. We had laughter in our home. We had dysfunction, too. But I can tell you this: we had her. And that mattered. There were times I saw her cry. Times I saw her hold it in. Times I watched her get knocked down, but never stay there. That's the thing about resilience. It’s not shiny. It doesn’t ...

He told me to get in the car. I did—because when you're a kid and a grown man says that, you go. You don’t ask questions. You don’t expect much. But you definitely don’t expect what came next. We drove for a while, pulled into some parking lot, and without warning, he turned to me and punched me in the mouth. No conversation. No buildup. Just a fist and the words, “Stop being a little bitch.” I don’t remember what came after. Not really. I just remember trying to figure out how to explain my face to the world. I made something up—I don’t even recall what the lie was now. Only that I learned fast how to cover pain. How to tuck it in and keep it moving. You learn to survive. But here’s the thing: survival isn’t the same as healing. That punch didn’t just split my lip—it split something deeper. It told me I wasn’t safe. That I didn’t matter. That the men who were supposed to protect me could just as easily be the ones who hurt me. And for a long time, that scar shaped the ...