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I like to keep things light around here—DIY tips, a few laughs, and the kind of self-deprecating stories that make folks feel a little more normal. Writing about the critters up here on the ridge makes me happy. And honestly, the daily chaos of an anxious, ADHD-prone woman paired up with a blues-loving Oklahoma cowboy? That’s comedy gold.
But the other day, someone said—kindly but firmly—“You’ve got all this education, training, and experience. Why not use some of it to talk about the heavier stuff, too?” Fair point. That comment stuck with me. So today, I’m stepping out of my lighthearted lane and wading into deeper water.
Let’s talk about trauma.
Not the headline kind—plane crashes, car wrecks, or fires. I mean the kind that seeps in slowly, quietly, and deeply:
- Not knowing if there’ll be dinner that night
- Being scared of what you’ll walk into after school
- Genuinely not understanding what you did to make your father explode
- Being constantly criticized—or worse, totally ignored
- Knowing, deep down, you rank below the bottle or the pills
That kind of trauma doesn’t show up in a single moment. It shows up every single day. Day after day. Year after year.
It teaches you to stay small, stay quiet, stay alert. Or it pushes you to be loud and bold, hoping nobody notices how scared you really are. It arms kids with survival skills that will make no sense in adult relationships. It takes the future off track before you’ve even had a chance to aim.
I met a lot of those kids as a caseworker. Kids who only felt safe in chaos, because calm felt like the eye of a storm. Their brains got stuck in “survive” mode. The amygdala—the part of the brain that senses danger—was stuck on high alert. So even as grownups, they carry around invisible fear and grief. They self-sabotage peace because peace feels foreign. They don’t trust happiness—it never lasted long enough to seem real.
And no, you don’t just “get over” that. You have to unlearn. You have rewire the brain. And that takes time, work, and a whole lot of grace and support.
Need some perspective?
When a child loses a parent in a plane crash, we understand it as a tragedy. We grieve with them. We show up with casseroles, comfort, and candlelight vigils.
But what about the kids who lose a parent to addiction? Not all at once—but slowly, painfully, over years and years? That parent may be sitting right there—but emotionally? They’re gone. And those kids grieve alone. No casseroles. No vigils. Just loneliness born of—well, being alone—when they should have had consistency, guidance, and love.
Believe me, their grief is just as real and tragic as the kind left behind by the headline makers. It matters—deeply.