Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve struggled with who I am and where I belong. People say childhood is supposed to be filled with laughter, carefree memories, and innocent joy, but mine was anything but that. My memories are laced with worry, anxiety, and darkness. I’m not saying everything was awful, but there was always a “what if” hanging over every moment. My parents – they fought constantly. Their unhappiness was tangible, and there was no warmth to lean on. I tried to ignore the arguments and hope my dad would come home, but some nights, he simply didn’t. My dad and I never had that typical father-daughter bond; we clashed, and being a 110% mama’s girl only seemed to make things harder.
Both sides of my family were at odds. My parents divorced when I was in fourth grade, and I clung to my mom’s belongings for comfort, thinking, “Daddy is going to take me from mommy, and I’ll never see her again.” My anxiety was so overwhelming that my school counselor didn’t even consider family therapy an option; instead, I was put on medication, which helped some, but didn’t solve the core of the pain. As a child, I often blamed myself, wondering what I could have done to keep my parents together, unaware of the mental abuse and dysfunction around me.
School was no refuge. I faced relentless bullying that made childhood and adolescence feel like an uphill battle. Coupled with divorce and the lack of emotional support from my parents, life felt isolating and heartbreaking. I longed to love both my parents fully, but circumstances made it nearly impossible. Until high school, I lived with my mom and stepdad, moving across states in a fifth-wheel camper for his job. Then, freshman year, I moved in with my dad. We lived with his parents, and money was so tight that we shared a room. Those two years were a struggle, filled with tension, adjustment, and more questions than answers.
High school itself was challenging. I wasn’t academically strong, and my sophomore year brought another move when my dad finally found us a house. New schools, new friends – the cycle of adjustment never seemed to end. By senior year, the pressure reached its peak. I lived a lie, waking up each day, putting on a bright smile for classmates and teachers, trying to make everyone laugh while inside I was collapsing. Dance team became my only escape, my safe space, but even there, I struggled for support. My family accused me of “crying wolf,” of faking my depression, and it drove me further into darkness. I felt unseen, unheard, and profoundly alone.
I called my mom every day, screaming and crying, desperate to escape, desperate to feel safe, desperate to know who I really was. Life felt heavy and unmanageable, and the bond I longed for with my dad and family seemed out of reach. I was sad, anxious, and depressed, and from the outside, people might never have guessed the battles I faced.
Eventually, I moved back in with my mom, embraced independence, got my license, my first job, and my first car. I started working to rebuild my relationship with my dad at 18. In 2015, missing Georgia and my roots, I moved in with my maternal grandmother, who supported my dreams and encouraged me for two years. When circumstances shifted, I asked my dad if I could move back in with him. I brought along my rescue baby, Samson, and felt hopeful that life was finally on the right track.
I found a job at a family-owned car dealership, the top dealership in Augusta, Georgia. I worked hard, paid bills, and followed the rules at home. But when my dad insisted I rehome Samson temporarily, the bond I shared with him was disrupted. This little rescue was my security blanket, my comfort, my joy, and giving him up, even temporarily, was heartbreaking. By April 2019, my dad began charging me rent. I accepted it, wanting to prove I could handle adulthood, but soon spiraled into depression again. I was diagnosed with chronic depression and major anxiety. My stepmom found a room for rent online, and though hesitant to live with someone, I took the chance – and it changed my life.
On June 15th, I moved into my first apartment on my own. For the first time, I felt free – free to be me, free to breathe, free from judgment and negativity. Living independently, my relationship with my dad improved; I no longer had to people-please or carry burdens that weren’t mine. I turned the key in my apartment door, holding Samson close, and finally exhaled. I was free. And I still am. Every day, I work on myself, growing, thriving, and becoming the best version of me I can be.
Happy Bree.
