My Origin Story as a Writer

I didn’t grow up in a home where feelings had a place to land.
I grew up watching the way a door closed
to figure out if I was safe.

The sound of footsteps down the hallway
told me more about the day
than anyone ever said out loud.

I learned early
that silence wasn’t calm,
it was warning.

Some kids learned songs or sports.
I learned how to read storms
in the pause before a voice changed.

I was the child who practiced disappearing.
Who learned which truths were dangerous
and which questions were better swallowed whole.

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Pain came early, too.
Real, physical pain
the kind that makes you feel older than you are.

I remember trying to explain it,
using the wrong words because I didn’t have the right ones yet.
I remember the way adults brushed it off
as if my body was lying.
Doctors telling me I was fine
when nothing felt fine at all.

And somewhere in all of that,
I learned the lesson that shaped my whole childhood:

don’t tell.

Don’t tell what you feel.
Don’t tell who or what hurt you.
Don’t tell what happened.
Don’t tell anyone the things that keep you up at night.

But secrets grow heavy.
They settle in places you don’t notice at first
the jaw you clench,
the breath you shorten,
the heaviness you tuck into your posture.

By the time I understood what it was
I’d been living through,
I’d already carried it alone for years.

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The night everything shifted,
I wasn’t trying to be brave.
I wasn’t trying to be a writer.
I was just a girl sitting on the floor of her room
with too many memories pressing against her ribs.

I picked up a pen
because there was nowhere else for the truth to go.

The words were shaky,
scattered, scared.
Not a poem
just a person finally letting herself speak.

It was the first time
I let the truth come out
exactly as it was.

Writing became the one place
my body didn’t tense.
The one place I didn’t have to watch my tone,
or my volume,
or the way my face changed
when something hurt.

It became the room
where I could finally sit beside my younger self
and say the things she never heard:

you’re not imagining it
you’re not too much
you deserved care
you deserved safety
you deserved someone who listened

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I became a writer because I grew up in a home
where emotions had consequences
and telling the truth meant paying for it later.

And every poem now
is my way of giving that girl
a voice she wasn’t allowed to have.

I write for the girl who never felt safe.
I write for the women who learned how to survive
before they ever learned how to rest.
I write for anyone trying to hold a story
that’s heavier than it looks from the outside.

This is where I come from.
This is the truth behind my voice.
This is why I’ll never stop writing.

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Let’s Keep the Conversation Going

If any part of this essay found its way to your heart,
I’d love to hear from you.
Leave a comment or share it with someone
who might need a reminder that their story deserves to be heard, too.

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My Inspiration Corner

One book, one quote, and one song that supported me
in understanding my past and finding my way back to myself:

Book: The Deepest Well by Dr. Nadine Burke Harris
A compassionate look at childhood trauma and how it stays in the body
and the reminder that healing is possible, even after years of carrying things alone.

Quote:
“You are not what happened to you. You are what you make of it.” — Unknown

Song: Slow Dancing in the Dark (acoustic) by Joji

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If You’d Like to Support My Work

Here are a few lovely ways:
• Like and share my personal essays that stay with you
• Pick up one of my Trauma Informed Writing Tools
• Visit my print shop for prints and healing pieces
• Or treat me to a little coffee on Ko-fi — it truly keeps me writing

Thank you for reading,
for holding these words with me,
and for being part of this growing, healing community.

Debra 💕