I grew up in a household with a Caucasian mom and a Black dad. My mom was alright in terms of taking care of us—cooking, cleaning, working, and juggling three kids as a single parent. But there was something deeply wrong with her. She was always mad, always crying, and always depressed. Her voice often filled the house with screams, and she would curse like a sailor. It felt like every sentence contained a curse word, and she would call us names like "stupid b****" or "dumb b****." Her anger could be triggered by anything—a piece of paper on the floor or a minor mistake. If you breathed wrong, you might hear her yell, "Ughhh, Rosie, WTF are you doing?" It was exhausting living in that environment.
My mother had a messed-up childhood herself; she was abused by her father in ways that left deep emotional scars. This trauma affected her and rippled through our lives as children. I often told her she was acting "psycho" and that she needed help. But as a baby boomer, she was stuck in her ways and refused to seek the counseling and therapy she so desperately needed. She never got the chance to try, and I knew it wasn’t likely she would have sought help anyway.
When I was 14, my mother made the heartbreaking decision to give my little sister and me up to the Department of Human Services (DHS). She thought she was rid of us, but she could have given us to our dad. Instead, she didn’t tell him anything, and I ended up in a foster home for eight months. During that time, I ran away three times, only to be arrested and sent back to the foster home. Eventually, I had a court date and was placed in my dad's custody.
While moving in with my dad was a relief, it was difficult not being around my family. I had never been away from them my whole life, and I know what it feels like to be in DHS custody with no visits or support. I watched as other kids received visits from their families while I sat alone, grappling with the reality of being cut off. I remember spending Christmas and Thanksgiving in a town known for its racism, being sent to North Arkansas for Thanksgiving with a foster family. That was my first time trying deer meat. It stung to be sent to Nashville, Arkansas, for Thanksgiving with a foster family, all because my biological family didn’t want to see me—not once did anyone reach out or call.
Having gone through all of that, I felt a strong desire to raise my children differently. I don’t want to call my kids names or treat them the way my mother treated us. I want to break the cycle of anger and abandonment. I refuse to let my past dictate how I parent.
Reflecting on my experiences, I think about my uncle Mike and his wife, Linda, who held racist views. Their attitudes highlighted the complexities within my own family dynamics and the impact of societal issues. It emphasizes the importance of healing and breaking free from cycles of trauma, whether it's personal or rooted in broader societal challenges.
As I navigate parenthood, I carry the weight of my past but also hold onto hope. I strive to create a nurturing environment for my children—one where they feel safe, loved, and valued. I want them to grow up knowing they can express their feelings without fear of ridicule or anger.
Breaking the cycle is not easy, but it is possible. My journey has taught me the importance of self-awareness, compassion, and seeking help when needed. I share my story in the hope that it resonates with others who may be struggling and encourages them to foster a brighter future for their families.
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