Note: Names used in this post have been changed for privacy and are not real or identifiable individuals.
This post includes references to personal trauma and sensitive experiences.
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I don’t remember much about my biological father during my early childhood. Most of him is a blur to me. But there is one clear memory — a snapshot burned into my mind.
I remember visiting him in jail with my biological mother and my sister, Rose. I was naïve and innocent, too young to understand the walls and bars that surrounded us. Back then, I called men “Dad” because I didn’t know the difference, like what kid would. It was just what I did.
What I carry from that day is being in his lap, looking up at his face. He had no hair, a gentle smile, and a very short, scruffy beard. He was kind. I remember touching his face, feeling the texture of his beard with my little fingers, and staring into his eyes. That moment stayed with me.
Beside him sat my sister’s father, Dan. What I know about him is that he was happy to step up for me, happy the first time I called him “Dad.” In my memories, there’s also a moment of us jamming in the car, music blasting — “Crazy Bitch” playing and dancing with the beat.
Fast forward...
The Good Times — Memories
I have memories from my younger years, living with Anna and Richard.
There were two trailers and a big stretch of countryside out in North Carolina —
I think it belonged to one of Richard’s family members, maybe his grandfather.
The land felt endless.
With a long dirt road, we had two big ponds for fishing, farm animals, a cornfield, and woods that I loved to run through. Had a little garden on the side of our trailer, but I would get bitten up by ants picking potatoes. But if the old man saw me in the woods, he’d yell at me to stay out—for safety.
I was a wild little thing.
I used to pick up baby water moccasins like they were nothing. I threw them in a bucket and ran when I had to.
Lizards, insects, snakes—I wasn’t scared.
I was just curious and had something to do.
Being a tomboy at heart.
A fearless little girl.
We had pigs and donkeys for a while, but they were eventually removed due to the presence of black copperheads.
The chickens and goats stayed, though.
Sometimes, Rose and I would sneak into the barn shed, where the goats were kept.
We’d sit quietly, just watching them do their thing, feeling the warmth and stillness of that space like it was a secret just for us.
When we weren’t in the shed, we found other ways to pass the time.
There was a huge gravel pile we’d climb like it was a mountain. At the top, we’d grab a tree branch and swing off it—laughing like we were flying, like we were Tarzan.
At a different shed—I think it was an old car shed— there were doodlebug pits in the dirt, where antlion larvae lived. Rose and I would crouch beside them and sing:
“Doodlebug, Doodlebug, come out and play…”
We didn’t know if the song really worked, but we swore it did. It was the kind of magic only kids believe in. And it was enough.
One day, we tried to ride the goats. Richard was there, and so was his father—though I don’t remember why he came over. It was so fun and taking turns with my sister Rose. Richard helped me up onto one of the goats and told me to hold tight to the horns and brace myself.
So I did.
He let go—And the goat took off!
I fell off and landed in barbed wire. I cut my right leg near the inside of my knee. The fun turned to pain in an instant.
They brought me inside and cleaned the cut.
They sprayed something on it—I don’t remember what it was, but it burned like hell.
I remember Richard’s biological father holding me while I cried. I don’t remember much else about him besides watching him eat a worm in front of me in the car, and I tried it all and believed it poop in my mouth and I spit it out. He and everyone in the car were laughing.
But I remember that.
And even though everything hurt, there was something in the way he held me that made me feel safe, just for a moment. I am happy to carry the scar on my leg from that day and look back at that simple moment.
We had one of those cheap, battery-powered kids’ 4-wheelers that my biological father had given us, but Anna tried to take credit for it. Learned that truth as I got older…
It wasn’t fast or powerful, but it worked. Rose and I had to share it. We tried to ride it together if we could find a way, but we couldn’t, sadly. We did have to take turns and share it.
We’d drive it in circles around the old man’s trailer. There was just sand and dirt. I had a path to go around in circles and try to go as fast as I could go. I was a speed racer! To us, it was fun.
The old man would get annoyed and call our parents to make us stop. Looking back, I get why. It made a loud whining noise. But as a kid, I didn’t think about that. I was just focused on the ride. We had to charge it every night. Eventually, it stopped working altogether. But for a while, it gave us something to look forward to. Just a little fun, in our own little world.
Those were the good times.
The memories I hold onto—of gravel piles and goat rides, of doodlebug songs and stolen moments in the barn shed. They were wild, messy, and full of laughter. And they were real.
But it wasn’t always like that.
There were bad times, too.
Moments involving police. Moments where things weren’t safe. Moments that hurt my mother.
Things we didn’t talk about, even when we knew something was wrong.
We saw things we shouldn’t have.
Felt things were too heavy for our age.
Sometimes the yelling would come out of nowhere.
Sometimes the silence was worse.
The good memories don’t erase the pain—and the pain doesn’t erase the good. They just sit beside each other now, woven into the same thread of childhood. One moment, we were laughing. Next, we were bracing ourselves for what would come next.
And somehow, both are true.
Both are mine.
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.”
—Isaiah 43:2
