treading lightly

i cant hold on too tightly

Everything I own could fit into the backseat of my Toyota Camry—and that I don’t even own. You might think I’m lucky enough to have storage somewhere else, like a parents’ basement or an attic filled with dusty boxes. But no. Even my childhood Christmas ornaments are tucked away in that car, alongside clothes for every season, a tea kettle, every book I’ve ever read, and a single nightstand.

I drift through life, weightless. Like if I hold on too tightly, everything might slip away again.

My foundational years lacked foundation. We were always moving—never grounded, never unpacked—just circling fragile routines that dissolved when the cracks got too wide. Every time I tried to settle, I knew it wouldn’t last. My mom would do her best to keep things together, and I’d do mine to stay small, stay quiet, stay out of the way. But the fire had already started. The roof over my head, the car that drove me to school, the very feeling of home—everything smoldered around me. And sometimes, she didn’t even try to put out the flames.

Lately, I’ve been wrestling with the weight of truth and protection. There’s a part of me that wants to skate lightly across the surface of these memories, to keep things neat, to protect the people I love. But another voice keeps whispering, “Who protected you?”

This is the line I walk carefully. I know people fought for me. I know love existed even in the mess. But this is still my truth, and I didn’t get to choose it. In every story, there is an antagonist. I just happen to still love mine.

There’s something about being raised by your grandparents that marks you. It leaves a trace. I feel like we can recognize one another in the wild, a nod to the way we have to hold ourselves- tough, smart, and a bit rough on the edges from the sad truth of seeing a bit too much, a bit too young. If it weren’t for mine, there would have been many nights with no heat, and no lights. My grandma was always on watch for me and I often wonder where I would be without her. My mom worked—or at least she tried. But the money had a way of turning into orange bottles with labels scratched off, or little plastic bags hidden in drawers.

As I get older, my memories have split into two realities. One where I was cared for—cocooned in chocolate milk with a straw every morning, warm meals, and dance competitions. Plentiful Christmas mornings, and strong family traditions. A normal childhood, right? But then I remember the straws cut in half and stashed in makeup bags, the burnt spoons on the stove, the tense hotel stays during dance competitions. I’d share a room with another mom and daughter and worry—not if, but when—my mom would take pills that didn’t belong to her. And I remember realizing the Christmas gifts must be stolen.

She made everything happen, but at what cost?

It was all fine until I couldn’t pretend anymore.

It was fine until I watched my older brother roll across the lawn one windy night, high on heroin and slurring, "She’s buying drugs instead of putting food on the table."

My arms were held tight across my chest as my hair blew in every direction.

My mom was to my left, vaping and speechless.

Who was I supposed to believe in this moment?

In the eighth grade, my childhood ended in two ways. I learned what sex was, thanks to scrolling Tumblr, and I watched my mom get handcuffed in my living room. My best friend was over at the time, holding me back while I screamed bloody murder. I don’t remember what I was screaming, but I remember feeling my body break apart in ways that haven’t fully mended. Funnily enough, this all happened on the same night.

The next day, my best friend marched me to the guidance counselor and made me talk about what happened. I didn’t want to. I just wanted to go home, back to the naive, safety of my childhood.

But safety didn’t come. A year later, I stood by a vending machine at the mall, starkly empty, listening to the slow, haunting spin of the carousel while I waited for my mom to leave the bathroom. My palms were sweating. I knew what she was doing. I braced myself for the moment she’d come out, moving jaw, uncontrollable twitches, nervous eyes and minutes later I sat on a curb of a Main Street, cold and tired. My mom got pulled over and arrested on the spot. As she was stowed in the backseat of a car, the cops found what they suspected. Surprisngly, I didn’t cry. I didn’t call anyone. I remember watching one ant walk around in circles, for hours, as I sat in the police station until 3am, being bothered that I had school the next day.

I still don’t know who made the call, but being left to no choice, someone in my family called Child Protective Services. As they should have. A woman I didn’t know started showing up at my school and home, asking me all sorts of personal questions. Frankly, I found her quite annoying and I defended my mom every time. She was a good mom. She fed me. She cared for me. She was nice. She was fun. No, there was nothing ever wrong. No, I was never scared and no, my mom does not do drugs.

I couldn’t say the truth out loud.

But the truth doesn’t wait for you to be ready. One day I got pulled into the counselor’s office and saw my dad sitting across from her. In one sentence, I was told I wouldn’t be living with my mom anymore. I had twenty minutes to pack whatever I needed and say goodbye.

I sobbed the whole way back. My dad asked me why I was crying. He didn’t understand that I’d just been torn from the only world I knew. More importantly, he didn’t understand that I’d officially lost the version of my mom that I tried so hard to keep envisioning.

I lived at my grandma’s house until the school year ended. I didn’t tell my friends I was moving towns until the last day of school, on my birthday. The weight of it sat heavy in my stomach. On that day, my childhood best friend and I haphazardly talked about the last couple of years as we rode around on roller coasters. She tried so hard to shield the truth, too.

Recently, my childhood friend lived near me again for the first time since this unfortunate occurrence 10 years ago.

She frequently said I reminded her of my mother. My initial reaction was always a contorted face, disgust, and shame. I would always stop what I was doing or saying and ask her to take it back but the memory Katherine has of my mother is vastly different from mine.

Katherine remembers the cool mom. The cool mom that let us stay up as late as we wanted. A mom who had no rules and never said no. She remembers her childlike energy and constant excitement. Her willingness to always sing and dance. Katherine remembers my mom driving us anywhere and letting us have candy for dinner. The constant laughs and insane, goofy memories.

I remember that mom, too. That is why I am walking on eggshells.

But I also remember the shaky hands and dilated pupils. I remember the embarrassment that came from her constant twitches and the stress of always being late. I remember the fear of bad people being so close. I remember scanning the roads for police cars, tightening my chest if one was in close range. I remember the fear of knocking at the door that could take her away at any moment. I remember everything we owned being stolen or sold. I remember hearing her snort behind every bathroom door and I remember what she chose.

And it wasn’t me.

Everything I own can fit into the backseat of my Toyota Camry because if I am ever not chosen again, I don’t have much to pack. I guess I can thank my mother for that.