I grew up watching old television shows where families were warm, patient, and safe—everything mine was not. On screen, parents were steady and loving. Children were allowed to make mistakes without fear. Discipline came through understanding, not punishment. Love was unconditional.
At home, fear was the foundation. Yelling was constant. Expectations were rigid. Discipline was something you braced for, not learned from. Those TV families didn’t just entertain me—they showed me what family could be, and they were the first hint that the one I was born into didn’t have to define me.
For a long time, I thought my family was normal. I assumed every child woke up scared of what the day might bring. But watching those shows, I became transfixed. I’d daydream about being part of those families, imagining who I might have become if fear hadn’t been my daily companion. Fear should be reserved for accidents or emergencies—not for the people who are supposed to protect you. But that wasn’t my reality. It never would be.
We lived in a big farmhouse with a white picket fence—picture‑perfect from the outside, chaos on the inside. I woke each morning wondering what horrors were waiting. My mother could have me in tears before breakfast ended. My brother, the golden child, caused mischief knowing I’d take the punishment for it. I was the oldest, so everything was somehow my fault.
Discipline was abuse, delivered swiftly and with satisfaction. Cans dropped on my feet because I wasn’t wearing slippers. My room torn apart and everything dumped at the door because it wasn’t “clean enough.” I’d have to redo it all—clothes folded, bed remade, trinkets placed just so. I still remember the smile on my mother’s face as she destroyed my room. She enjoyed it. My tears only fueled her.
My family were monsters—myself included, because survival required becoming one. Compliments were dangled like carrots. If I did everything perfectly, maybe I’d earn a smile. But the smile never came. There were no hugs, no kisses, no “I love you.” Just impossible expectations and endless chores. I ironed bedsheets until they were perfectly smooth. I pressed my father’s uniforms for hours. Perfection was the only acceptable outcome. Meanwhile, my baby sister spent her afternoons playing because she was “too young for chores.” I wondered why that rule didn’t apply when I was her age.
I swore I would never create a family like the one I survived. My children would be surrounded by love and acceptance. They would hear “I love you” every day. They would never know fear at the end of my hands. They would be safe, valued, cherished. Mistakes would be lessons, not punishments.
I imagined a home like the Waltons or the Brady Bunch—warm, gentle, full of laughter. I wanted my children to live, not just survive.
I wish I could say I succeeded. But life had other plans, and my own trauma followed me into motherhood. I yelled too much. I reacted instead of responding. That part of my mother still lives in me, and some days I joke that I need a priest for an exorcism.
But here’s the truth: I’m rewriting the definition of family. Not the one I watched on TV, and not the one I was raised in—but the one I’m building now, piece by piece. I’m not perfect, but I’m still trying. And trying counts.
Still standing, waiting for my head to catch up to my reality,
K.