🦋 There’s something irresistibly captivating about the ocean, especially when a storm is on the horizon. The winds carry a brisk, salty breeze, and as you stand there, your feet sink into the cool, grainy sand. The ocean’s waters lap at your ankles, shifting from gentle caresses to a forceful splash, wild and unpredictable. You glance around, noticing the shoreline rapidly emptying—people scrambling to safety, their silhouettes fading against the encroaching darkness as the sky thickens with ominous clouds. The sea begins to stir, restless and wild, tossing white-capped waves in a chaotic dance. There’s a raw power to the sea, a power that can lull you into calm and awe yet remind you in an instant of its ability to destroy everything in its path. You know that if you entered the water now, you could be swept away forever, consumed by forces far beyond your control. Yet, you linger, hoping against hope that the storm will pass, clinging to the fragile belief that you can hold steady just long enough for the worst to blow over.

For as long as I can remember, there were things that terrified others, but those same things seemed to draw me in. Amid volatile storms, I felt an unknowing calm. I craved the unpredictable fury, found comfort in chaos, while stability felt like a cage. It was almost torturous. I suppose it was in my earliest memories, even at three years old, that I learned to surrender quietly in the face of trauma and somehow find comfort in the freeze. I could detach from danger, my body remaining still while my mind wandered far from the turmoil around me. Flashes of scenes like lightning would pierce the darkness, yet I would escape into the recesses of my mind. Sometimes, I fled for survival; other times, I hid to avoid the risk of conflict, the fear of abandonment weighing heavily. So, I complied—silently.

It was easier to disappear into the background, to be seen but not heard. I understood that voicing my needs would only stir the storm around me, and I wasn’t prepared to weather it. So, I chose the quiet path. I remained still, invisible in my compliance. My thoughts, my desires, my voice—they all existed, but they stayed tucked away, stuck, locked inside where they were safe from the external chaos.

In many ways, growing up, my mother mirrored this existence. I often caught that distant look on her face, as if she were physically present, yet her mind was adrift in a whirlwind of thought. She, too, seemed trapped in her own storm, caught between her desires and the demands of life. We existed in parallel worlds—bodies anchored in one place while our minds floated elsewhere entirely.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” I whispered to my mom as we sat together in the dark. I was a little girl, under seven, too young to grasp the full weight of the moment but old enough to feel the sadness radiating from her. It was the ’70s, and we lived in a trailer—I say that for descriptive purposes because the windows in the trailer seemed different than the windows in a house. They were framed in dull, grey metal, like the windows you see on a school bus, except taller and vertical. I remember staring out into the night, the rain drops slowly gliding down the glass, creating patterns on the window that blurred the outside world into shadows.

I always feared the dark, so I must have been nestled against my mom on that dimly lit couch, seeking comfort. I must have been on her lap, facing her, her face wet with tears born from profound heartache. Even without words, I sensed the weight of her sorrow—it was about my dad. I couldn’t grasp all the specifics, but a child can feel such heaviness, sensing what lies beneath the surface. So, I sat there, her tiny comforter, offering her the only reassurance I could muster, “Everything is going to be okay.”

My parents were mere teenagers when they had me, and from my first breath, I was enveloped in intense emotions. Like standing on the shoreline, noticing the storm coming in, still, even as you recognize the danger. The emotions in our house were similarly potent.

My mom and dad were crazy in love. I can still see that spark in her eyes when she reminisces about those early days with him. But sometimes, the house would erupt into violence. From her first marriage to her second, the emotions in the house were a tumultuous sea—unpredictable and intense, with an undercurrent that was very strong.

Now, it makes sense why calm and consistent people often bored me as a child. My nervous system didn’t recognize them. I cherish those relationships now, especially as I approach 50—valuing the calmness and steadiness that the people around me often bring. Yet before I had my son, I sought out dangerous, risky adventures, this kind brought me a sense of peace. It’s clear to me that from the very beginning, I entered this world awash in extreme moods, tidal waves of emotion.

I was born on January 1st, a date that has always felt significant and special for my family but also a date that carried great trauma. For now, I will talk about the special—a day shared with my mom and my grandfather, her father. Our birthdays intertwined, a connection that felt like fate. Celebrating together fostered a sense of belonging, as if God above had plans to bind us. I often felt special because of this bond, convinced I was my grandfather’s favorite. I sometimes wonder if I am narcissistic. “Just the fact that you’re asking if you are a Narcissist means you are not a Narcissist,” my girlfriend Gloria, a seasoned therapist, would remind me. We often engage in hours of deep, synchronized conversation. Always retrieving back to my education and experience in psychology and counseling…a career I stepped away from after the loss of my nephew…

I can be overwhelming for some. I get it. I can be too much for myself at times! My conversations dive deep into the deep parts of the sea, and while me and my close friends discuss profound topics as casually as one might talk about the weather—I’ve learned that not everyone is ready to dive into those depths. I’m working on keeping my voice softer, listening more intently, being comfortable in more shallow waters.

I asked Gloria that question because a lot of times in my childhood, I felt special, and it was coupled with complex trauma. That special feeling along with trauma can create some issues. Of which I am aware. But, I spent and spend a great deal of time processing things. Which meant, I talked about myself, like I am doing right now. Sometimes, I think I write to give that little girl a voice. But, I also have a great desire to understand things so that they are not repeated.

It is as if I paint a color on the canvas and go over it, back and forth, again and again, continually processing, almost like eye movement desensitization. The back and forth motion on canvas is so calming for me. Just writing about it makes me want to go paint a painting. Then, when the painting is done, the joy of stepping back and noticing that I am OK. It is beautiful. My life is beautiful—The greater meaning. I am OK.

Not only do I feel a profound sense of peace when I finish painting the calm sea, but I also find myself captivated by its beauty. I begin to see the beauty in life, in the people around me, and I’m elated by the discovery of the vibrant coral beneath the waves. Yes, it can sting if you step on it, a reminder of nature’s sharp edges. But if you take a moment to pause and truly appreciate it, the coral transforms into a breathtaking spectacle, revealing the most soothing and inspiring journey you could embark on.

I am okay; we are okay. Everything is going to be okay.

To be continued…

May the pain we share serve to awaken compassion in others, just as it has awakened compassion within us. And in doing so, may it pave the way for a deeper, more meaningful love—the kind that endures through the hardest of times and emerges stronger on the other side. With Love, Tonya