🌑 WEEK 3 — The Years of Silence No One Saw (1982–1990)

There are years of my childhood that feel like they belong to another lifetime — years I survived only by shutting down parts of myself that were too young to understand the pain. After my mother died, I entered a world no child should ever have to know.

🌘 The Silence That Protected Others — Not Me

It began slowly, almost quietly.

At 9 years old, my biological father — a man who had never been part of my life — suddenly appeared.

Instead of bringing comfort, he brought harm.

His presence opened a door to a darkness I didn’t have words for and wouldn’t be able to speak about for many years.

Whenever I tried to tell the truth, adults dismissed me.

I was told I was “lying,” “making things up,” “imagining things,” or that “no one needs to know.”

I was told to stay quiet, obey, and pretend everything was fine.

I learned quickly that:

• my truth didn’t matter

• my safety didn’t matter

• my voice didn’t matter

I was punished for resisting.

Punished for speaking.

Punished for being a child who needed protection.

People who were supposed to love me ignored my pain — and allowed more of it to happen.

I learned early that silence wasn’t just expected…

it was required for survival.

And so my body went numb.

My spirit folded inward.

My childhood disappeared.

🌑 A Childhood Marked by Fear

Between the ages of 8 and 16, I lived in constant fear — hurt by people who should have protected me, both inside and outside the home.

There were days I wondered if the suffering would ever stop.

There were nights I prayed to disappear, not because I wanted to die, but because I needed the pain to end.

I tried to escape in the only ways a child knows how:

✨ At school — hiding in hallways, closets, and bathrooms

✨ In my mind — drifting into daydreams where life felt different

✨ In my body — turning pain inward because I had nowhere safe to go

✨ In my actions — running away, even without a place to land

School became my sanctuary.

My second-grade art teacher was the first adult who saw me — not the fear, not the silence, but the child underneath it all.

She gave me art and writing as a voice when I wasn’t allowed to speak.

But the loneliness was unbearable.

No one explained why my brothers were gone.

No one explained why my stepdad — the man who raised me — wasn’t allowed to visit.

No one explained what happened to my mother.

No one explained why speaking the truth only brought punishment.

I was just a little girl trying to survive a world that wouldn’t let her escape.

🌙 Puerto Rico & Numbing the Pain (1988–1989)

When we moved back to Puerto Rico, I was around 14.

From the outside, it looked like a fresh start — palm trees, warm air, new scenery.

But trauma doesn’t stay behind.

It follows you everywhere.

By 15, I was drowning emotionally.

Drinking became the only thing that made the pain quiet, even for a moment.

But alcohol doesn’t erase trauma.

It only buries it deeper.

🌪️ Running Away at 17 (1989)

At 17, I finally ran away.

School was still my safe place — the one place where adults sometimes noticed my fear.

My science teacher became another adult who tried to help me, the first one to truly see that something wasn’t right.

But even that wasn’t enough to save me.

I ended up on the news as a missing child.

A pastor found me at a friend’s house and dragged me back home, even though I begged him not to.

And the abuse continued.

I kept running, emotionally and physically, trying to find a way out — until one day I did.

💫 Takeaway

Children who survive silent trauma don’t grow up broken — they grow up brave.

My strength didn’t come from avoiding pain.

It came from surviving it, even when no one believed me.