Journey to Me
Breaking of Dawn
My earliest memory is of a brown bear on wheels. I was no older than three, quietly observant, rarely crying, and rarely smiling—traits my grandmother often noted.
She was my first anchor, though much of my early life was shaped by her absence. Around that time, she became gravely ill and was hospitalized for what felt like an eternity.
My grandfather, who worked second shift, never let me spend a night without him. Each evening, he would take me to my great aunt’s house, and before we left, he would call my grandmother at the hospital to give her a daily report. I would talk to her on the phone, still in diapers. One night, my great aunt asked, “Your grandmother wants to know if you’re ready to take off the diapers?” I said a firm “YES.” They both laughed. That was the last day I wore them.
My grandmother was diagnosed with Addison’s Disease. During her illness, nurses often found her speaking to someone unseen. My grandfather explained she was talking to God and to the grandmother who raised her.
When she finally came home, she confided that she had not expected to survive—and was not sure she wanted to stay with my grandfather due to his past infidelities and abuse. He promised to change. As far as I know, he did.
There was tension in the air about my very existence. My grandmother blamed my grandfather for my mother’s pregnancy, saying his behavior drove her to seek attention elsewhere. She held him responsible for me, and he stepped up. He combed my hair, took me to the park, to school, and the doctor’s appointments. He was the nurturer.
My grandmother, on the other hand, was fiercely protective but emotionally reserved. She cared deeply about my appearance, my health, and my whereabouts, but she was not one for hugs, kisses, or “I love you.” She was proud, elegant, and intelligent—always well-dressed and well-spoken. But her lack of affection planted a seed in me: a longing to feel loved, accepted, and emotionally safe.
Child development experts say we learn the most between birth and age six. I believe that is when I began what I now call attention purchasing—giving myself away, going out of my way to do kind deeds, even buying gifts to earn affection. I was not just trying to be liked. I was trying to believe I was lovable.
This journey—of searching, giving, and slowly reclaiming my worth—is the dawn I continue to break through. It is not just about healing. It is about understanding the roots of my resilience, the complexity of love, and the quiet power of choosing to be who
