When I was first asked to share my story, I agreed without hesitation. But now that I sit down to write it, my hands shake a little. This is the first time I’ve told my truth the whole truth. And it feels strangely freeing.
I grew up in what most would call a typical Mexican household. My mother was the backbone of the family, working endlessly to keep us alive, while my father hid behind his “macho” attitude. He was an alcoholic angry, controlling, and emotionally abusive.
My mother was his target often, and as children, we were caught in the crossfire. I was only six when I started being assaulted. I learned early what pain and silence looked like. And how resilience quietly grows.
We moved constantly, living out of boxes like it was second nature. My mom worked multiple jobs, always tired, always trying, while my dad blamed the world for his failures. I was the fourth of five children, three boys, two girls—and somehow, I always felt invisible. My brothers started families young; one went to jail at sixteen.
My mother eventually went to prison, too, for pawning her boss’s gold ring years earlier to buy us milk. Even though she returned the ring and took accountability, the system didn’t care. She was sentenced to three years. And I watched helplessly, heartbroken.
By then, my dad was still an addict. My baby sister went to live with our grandmother, and I stayed behind with him until the day he vanished. I remember coming home from school to find the door open, our money jar gone, and his things scattered everywhere. I knew he’d relapsed. I didn’t tell anyone. I lived alone for two weeks, eating school lunches, sleeping in a dark house with no lights or running water. My mother somehow found out from jail and wrote to my older brother to come get me. I didn’t want to go, but I had no choice.
A year later, my father came back, claiming he was clean. He picked up my sister and me, and for the first time in a long while, we felt like a family again. I’ll never forget our trip to visit Mom in prison. We stopped for breakfast, laughed, tried to act normal. But when I saw her pale, thin, a shadow of the woman I knew I broke inside.
That night, I prayed harder than I ever had before. I begged God to have mercy on us, to bring her home. Six months later, He did. She was released early, cancer-free, and alive. I thanked Him every single day.
Life slowly started to feel normal again. My sister and I had our own rooms. I lost the weight that had followed me since childhood. I had friends, a boyfriend, a bit of freedom. When that boyfriend proposed, I said yes, even though every part of me wanted to say no. I was nineteen when I got married and that’s when everything fell apart again.
He changed immediately. He became cold, controlling, and cruel. He decided how I spoke, dressed, and spent every penny. I lost my first baby at twenty, and five more after that. Six pregnancies. Six heartbeats that never made it to my arms. Each loss crushed a part of me.
When my marriage ended and the recession hit, I was left with nothing. I worked any job I could find. I partied, trying to fill the emptiness. Eventually, I fell to my knees and asked God to forgive me to help me start again.
Five years later, He did. My daughter, Catalina, was born in 2015. A year later, her brother arrived. Both were premature, both perfect. After everything I’d endured abuse, loss, loneliness, I finally became a mother.
Their father left us too, but I survived. I’m now a single mother of two beautiful souls, stronger than I’ve ever been. I’ve lost so much, but I’ve also gained faith, purpose, and peace. One day, I’ll meet the six babies I never got to hold. Until then, I live with gratitude. Life is still hard, but it’s beautiful and so am I.
I embrace growth, love, and hope.
