Finding My Way When the Map Was Torn

On Christmas of 2010, at the age of 25, I faced a moment that profoundly shaped my understanding of identity. It was a cold afternoon, the kind where festive cheer warms hearts, but mine was about to feel an icy sting. My mother, who had invited me over, was too intoxicated to open the door. Instead, it was my little brother, his eyes wide and innocent, who let me in. That moment hit me hard. It was like looking back at my own childhood, where my mom's battle with the bottle and screaming fights with her boyfriend were more the norm than Christmas presents and family dinners.

Growing up, my mother and her verbally abusive boyfriend were the figures of my early years. Her struggle with alcohol seemed to end when my siblings were born, painting a brief picture of normalcy. However, the resumption of her drinking shattered that image. The day she couldn't open her door was the day I realized I never really had a mother – not in the way one hopes. She couldn't nurture or guide because she was trapped in her own battles, leaving me to navigate life's complexities solo.

Reflecting on my childhood with my mother, it's evident that her neglect extended beyond the emotional. Basic needs, often taken for granted, were overlooked in our household. She never insisted on regular baths or the simple act of brushing our teeth. Doctor or dentist appointments were non-existent, leaving us to fend for ourselves in terms of health and hygiene. It was a stark contrast to the way I saw other parents taking care of their kids.

This neglect shaped a significant part of my identity. Growing up, I couldn’t turn to her for advice or support. She was ill-equipped to care for us because she hadn’t learned to take care of herself. It’s a peculiar and somewhat saddening realization that your parents had no business raising children. I often pondered over the ‘what-ifs’. What if I had been removed from that environment? Would I have grown up without the shadows of anxiety, insecurity, and depression that guided my every step?

That Christmas crystallized a painful truth: I had grown up without parents who could model what a healthy identity meant. My biological father was never around, and my mother, consumed by her addiction, was incapable of providing the stability and care essential for a child's growth. The void they left was profound, yet it set me on a path of self-discovery and healing.

In this quest, I turned to faith. It offered me something I had never experienced: a sense of belonging and a paternal figure who was constant. My faith introduced me to a father who would never abandon me, who offered guidance, wisdom, and saw potential in me. This spiritual journey wasn't just about finding solace; it was about redefining my identity. I learned of a father who told me I could do amazing things if I embraced the woman I was created to be. This message was transformative, filling the gaps left by my biological parents.

My newfound faith also taught me the power of forgiveness. It enabled me to look at my parents not with bitterness, but with empathy and love. Forgiving them was a liberating experience, freeing me from the shackles of resentment. It taught me that love doesn't always mean close contact; sometimes, it means wishing well from a distance. Protecting myself didn't equate to hatred; it was an act of self-love.

This journey into my identity taught me that we are not just products of our upbringing. Our identities can be reshaped and reformed through our beliefs, experiences, and the paths we choose to follow. The absence of healthy parents in my life was a void, but it also became a canvas for painting a new picture of who I could be.