As you see, this is Oklahoma-based, and well, hate to break it to you, I’m not a born-and-true Oklahoman.
My life started in Texas, somewhat grew in Indiana, and then really began here in Oklahoma. I grew up as the youngest of five kids, raised by the most kick-ass single mom. Although things were tough, I still had parts of my childhood. I had a few friends. I got to just be a kid before the trauma struck.
My siblings and I were close. I wanted to do everything my brothers did. We loved playing outside, swimming in rivers and lakes, and running through the woods. I loved playing house, and even then, I was drawn to spooky things. Life wasn’t always easy. We moved a lot, which meant changing schools often. That lack of stability gave me a not-so-solid education. By middle school, I stopped really trying.
I dropped out of high school when I was sixteen and went to work instead. I worked at a couple of fast food places and eventually ended up working with my mom at a daycare and that was the dream. I got to work with her for twelve hours a day, going on our daily morning Dunkin’ runs and our afternoon Dunkin’ runs too. Weekends, especially Sundays, were for breakfast and antiquing with Mom, like we didn’t already spend enough time together. It was really, really good… until I let the negatives of the outside world come between us. I was still running from my trauma.
I made the dumb decision to move out because I thought my mom was “the bad guy.” She wasn’t.
I put myself right back into the atmosphere of my trauma. Eventually, it all fell apart, and I ended up with even more of it. I was lost. I didn’t know who I was mentally or physically. I was withering away.In 2018, my childhood boyfriend, who had stayed my friend throughout the years, talked on and off. We started really talking, and this time, it took off. We texted and FaceTime every day and night, even falling asleep on the phone.
In October of that year, I decided to move thousands of miles away from my family to be with him. It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. I was still dealing with trauma I had never resolved. I was angry and vulnerable. I didn’t trust anyone around me, not even my boyfriend. I just didn’t know how to deal with what I had been carrying, and I didn’t have anyone I felt would truly understand.
I didn’t seek therapy until I was 22. That’s when I finally got to unpack everything and understand why I am the way I am. I received new diagnoses that were shocking, but they made sense. Until then, I felt like I was living on autopilot, like a constant black fog followed me everywhere.
Therapy brought a lot out of me. It taught me how to be honest, how to speak up, and how to stop holding everything inside. I learned to take accountability where I needed to, but also to recognize that I had been fighting things I never should have had to fight alone.
The years after were hard. There was a lot of job hopping, career changes, moving around, and financial struggle.
Then came 2024.
It was a terrible year, well, until the very end. At the beginning of the year, my brother went through more systemic failures and was wrongfully arrested. We were able to get him out, and he started getting the actual help/care he needed.
My husband and I moved from New Mexico back to Oklahoma and started camper life. I questioned everything at the beginning, like what the hell did we get ourselves into? We were still job hunting, scraping pennies. Every dollar we had went to rent or food.
In May, I got a call from my aunt saying my grandpa wasn’t doing well. I didn’t believe it. Just the day before, we were joking about the toe he had amputated, saying he had to keep it in a jar. It felt unreal.
My family helped me get an emergency flight home. I spent a week and a half visiting my grandpa in and out of the hospital until the doctors and our family decided to place him in hospice. It felt like my world collapsed. He was my safe place. My best friend. My father figures. He knew everything: my trauma, my secrets, and loved me without judgment.
All I could think about was never being able to call him again. Not on long drives. Not while doing chores. Not just to talk…. I wanted to hear him say “Hopie” one more time and feel his hug….
I got my wish. It was one of the last things he said…
The next day, I had to go home. I was supposed to start my new job within the week. I was terrified to leave, knowing the state he was in …. I was boarding the plane when I got the call… I just went numb. I don’t even remember the flight home.
I still carry guilt for leaving. I should’ve stayed.
Grief swallowed me. I couldn’t sleep. I lost myself again, this time with more anger and rage. Not long after, the truth about what happened to me as a child came out. As much as I hated how it surfaced, I’m glad it did.
I lost people who chose denial over truth. I wasn’t just grieving my grandpa; I was grieving someone who was still alive as well.
A few months later, my husband and I made the spontaneous decision to get married ( I mean, it wasn’t actually spontaneous). We had been together for six years and never wanted a big wedding. We planned everything in two months with our closest family and friends. The way everyone came together from different parts of the world to make our day perfect was beautiful.
I always wanted my grandpa to officiate at my wedding, just as he did for my sisters. Instead, my brother-in-law stepped in, and it felt incredibly meaningful knowing how much my grandpa adored him. My grandpa’s picture sat in a reserved chair in the front row, watching as I married the love of my life.
It was surreal. I had dreamed of that moment for so long. I always knew it was him.
Through everything, he stayed when others ran. He is my best friend, my constant. I can’t imagine life without him. I’m blessed that we get to grow old together. I picture us in rocking chairs someday, while he is still sipping Monster, while I drink my coffee, surrounded by a million cats (he just doesn’t know the cat part).
I love him in a way that goes beyond definition. His love is truly undefinable.
My life has been filled with ups and downs, trial and error, and years of trying to figure out who the hell I am and what I want to be. Mental health is hard. Trauma is heavy. Often, we don’t have people to pull us out when we’re drowning, and sometimes we must save ourselves.
So this is what I’ll leave you with:
Don’t be afraid to ask for help.
Don’t be afraid to start.
Don’t be afraid to speak.
Don’t be afraid to be who you are.
Don’t be afraid to try.
Just don’t be afraid.
No but thank you for being curious about my story. I ope you find a piece of your own strength in it.

Who is Hope?

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Who is Hope?

My story, a little about me, with a little bit of a trauma dump

If you read my story sor- I mean thank you

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