The Year of Significant Childhood Change
During the summer of 1990, two seismic events unfolded in my life: my parents divorced, and I told them I was being molested for the first time. That year marked the line in the sand when my childhood abruptly shifted.
I remember feeling a deep sadness about the divorce, as if something essential about us as a family had broken. But behind the heartbreak, there was also undeniable relief. My parents argued nearly every day. I’m sure there were peaceful ones too, but those memories are harder for me to reach.
Tension was a constant in our home, and even as a child, I could see the misalignment between them. It wasn’t that they didn’t love each other, it’s that they didn’t know how to love each other in a way that created peace and healing for them. They spoke different emotional languages, and neither had ever been taught how to translate the other’s pain.
The Emotional Blueprints They Inherited
Looking back, I now see that they carried invisible wounds; wounds that were never theirs to begin with. Wounds inherited from their brutal homes in childhood, marked by cycles of abuse, addiction, and survival.
My dad’s upbringing was harrowing. His father, an alcoholic, was so abusive he would come home and sucker punch my dad in the stomach for no reason at all, and would beat my grandmother badly. The confusion and pain of those moments stayed with my dad. They weighed heavily on him, and he was deeply saddened by that.
It breaks my heart to recall him sharing the story and tearing up saying, “I was just a little boy. I didn’t deserve that.” His childhood was a war zone, and my father carried the scars of what he experienced and what he witnessed into adulthood with a certain strength I wouldn’t understand until much later.
My mom’s story was slightly different and just as heartbreaking. Her father was also an alcoholic, though not abusive toward her. Instead, the damage came from her mother, a woman who couldn’t tolerate the bond my mom shared with her father. That resentment turned her into someone who was physically, mentally, and emotionally cruel; a deeply callous woman who became wretched in her ways.
My mother tells a story of her trying to kiss her mom goodnight at eight or nine years old, only to be met with, “Get out of my face.” That was a defining moment for her, and one of many. She too has carried the weight of not understanding how a mother could be so cruel to their child.
Today, her mother remains just as cold and callous, perhaps not as fiery now in her late 80s, but emotionally distant and cruel all the same. The warmth never arrived, and time hasn’t softened her. I know now that she, too, carries the heavy weight of generational trauma, passed down just as it was for my father’s father. Understanding that doesn’t excuse the cruelty, but it does remind me that hurt often runs much deeper than we can see.
Both of my parents were the eldest children, forced into adult roles far too early. They came from families that did not have the tools, the emotional language, or the freedom to parent from love instead of fear and past trauma. And yet, when it came to raising me, thank God they broke cycles.
This picture was taken around 1983/84. My mom holding me, my dad, and my half-brother, and my dog Jasper. They were building our home (with their own hands) that we lived in most of my life in Nashville; we were staying in a very small rental while they completed the construction.
The Ways They Broke the Cycle
My parents never physically abused me. Yes, I received what some might call the long-lost art of a “good ass whoppin,”; a firm swat on the butt here and there, followed by that unmistakable parental “look” that eventually became the only discipline I needed. My parents didn’t play around. They were strict and deeply invested in making sure I had both structure and stability. But beyond discipline, they poured their energy into giving me a beautiful life. They worked tirelessly in their businesses to provide not just what I needed, but so often, what I wanted.
They wanted better for me, and they delivered that in all the ways they knew how.
After the divorce, they both remarried, and in that next chapter, more healing came into our worlds. My dad married Susan, and my mother married Mike. Two people who, in their own unique way, changed our lives.
Susan (mom) came from a loving, grounded home. I lived with my dad after the divorce, so I spent a lot of time with her. At first, I didn’t like her. When my dad asked me why, I blurted out, “She’s too nice.” That was the first time I saw my father cry. He realized in that moment that I had learned to associate kindness with manipulation. To me at the age of 11, “nice” meant someone wanted something from me; there was always a catch. I energetically recoiled, like, “Uh, no thank you, enough has already been taken.” Kindness felt suspicious, not safe.
But Susan wasn’t like that. She never yelled, never pushed back, never asked anything from me. She was simply there; kind, soft, present, loving. Although, one time she called me a twit (because I was being really mean to her) and we both paused looking at each other, and I asked her, “Did you just call me a baby goldfish!?” We laughed so hard we cried… I think that’s when the bond was created between us. Susan had the capacity to see the fractured parts of me, and she met them with nothing but love. Over time, I saw her for who she really was: a woman who just wanted to love me. No strings attached.
BTW: a “fry” is a baby goldfish.
Mike, my stepdad, brought that same calming presence into my mom’s world. He’s patient, kind, and emotionally safe. He doesn’t try to fix my mother; he just loves her as she is. That unconditional presence gave her the space to soften, and to simply be just as she is; an incredibly wonderful woman who has a heart of gold and deeply loves her family and does all she can to provide the very best opportunities for everyone around her to thrive.
As I’ve grown and reflected, I see how all of this shaped me. My story isn’t one of blame. I don’t look at my parents and see failure, I see bravery. They did the best they could with what they had, and hands down, they did far better than what was modeled for them.
Were there mistakes? Absolutely. Am I proud of every moment of my own parenting? No. I’ve had my own missteps, times when I believed I was disciplining, but was really reacting from my own unhealed trauma. I know some of those moments left marks. And, we were blessed with a beautiful teacher when I married my late husband, my boys were just 10 and 6 at the time. B, as we affectionately called him, created space for my healing, and he modeled a kind of parenting rooted in softness, patience, and emotional safety. He showed me that when love is expressed gently, it becomes the place where children (and adults) can truly grow into themselves.
The Long Arc of Healing With My Parents
I believe our children choose us, just as we are. I believe my parents were exactly who I needed in order to become the woman I am today. Their limitations, their gifts, their every attempt, it was all part of a divine choreography. I was encoded with both their pain and their power. And that encoding became the catalyst for awakening.
Losing My Father
My dad passed away in 2016. There’s so much I miss about him, especially the healed parts; the version of him who had done his work and made peace with his past. He was very charismatic, extremely interesting, deeply loving, creative, super smart, and always looking out for the underdog. He was just a “cool dude,” as he would say with the smile that lit up the room. My father and I were very close, and we always said what needed to be said. His absence is still deeply felt, especially the calm strength he wrapped around me whenever I needed it most.
My dad Bob, Bobbie, Robbie, Dr. Bob, “The Hammer”, and Robert. 🙂
Rebuilding With My Mother
My relationship with my mom has evolved into something beautiful. At one point, I needed space; a long stretch of distance while I was deep in my own healing. For about five years, contact was minimal. Not because I didn’t love her, but because I had to find out who I was outside of all the roles and wounds. I had to learn to let her love me in ways I could receive fully. It took time. But today, we’re close. We laugh. We connect. And we both carry reverence for how far we’ve come in our growth together.
My sweet mother Donna
The Next Generation: My Children’s Journeys
Funny how life comes full circle. My oldest son, who I believed I had such a close relationship with, has created space from me since my husband passed. I miss his presence in my life so much, and, I continue to hold space for him to come back when he’s ready. I understand now that sometimes, space is love. It’s the most loving thing we can do when someone is trying to find themselves or figure things out within themselves. I trust he will return with his truth.
My youngest son and I are very close. He’s like a mini-me; his wit, his humor, the way he processes the world, even how he carries himself. It’s a joy to witness. Both of my boys are good men, with big hearts and sharp minds. They carry the best parts of all their lineages, and as my childhood friends used to say, “They good peoples”.
My late husband, “B”, me and my sons Daniel and Preston – on an Alaskan Cruise for Daniel’s 18th birthday.
What This Story Really Is
Yes, my story holds trauma, and yes, it’s a story of healing. But more than anything, it’s a love story. A tribute to my parents who dared to break cycles. Who stumbled, struggled, and still chose to rise, again and again, in the name of love and something better.
To all 4 of my parents, thank you for everything. For the magic, the mistakes, the lessons, and the love. For the silent sacrifices and the loud celebrations. For being the bridge between who I was born to be and who I had to fight to become. Thank you.
I see you now. Not just as my parents, but as human beings walking your own journey through life.
This is our story, and I’m proud of it.