Looking back now, the trauma I experienced as a child feels even heavier—brought to the surface again and again through therapy. One of the hardest things to face was knowing that my mom had finally learned the truth about the awful things her first husband had done. At the same time, I was trying to come to terms with a heartbreaking new reality: my beloved Skyler was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.
Years passed, filled with anger, depression, and moments where I wondered if things would be better if I disappeared too. Despite all that, I had friends. I smiled, tried to be a good friend, and stayed kind—even though I never really fit in with the “popular” crowd. I knew I never would.
I kept close to a small group of friends, but even in that circle, there was always some kind of drama. No matter how hard I tried to stay out of it, it somehow found its way in.
But I guess that’s just part of being a teenager—especially a teenage girl, with all the hormones and emotions that come with it. Everything felt more intense, more personal, more overwhelming.
When I wasn’t navigating the crowded halls of school, avoiding most of the people I didn’t want to face—even some of the few friends I had—I found refuge in martial arts. The dojo became more than just a place to train; it was my sanctuary, a space where I could breathe and be myself. What began as a single class each week quietly grew into six days of commitment. Sundays—the one day I gave myself to rest—often felt like the hardest day of all, the day when I most deeply felt the absence of that safe haven.
Yes, I had friends, but even they didn’t know the deepest parts of me—the childhood secrets and struggles I carried silently. After losing Skyler, trusting anyone outside my family felt impossible. I kept those pieces locked away, believing that no one else could truly understand what I was going through.
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