When I was two years old, my family left me. It’s a stark statement, and even now, as I write it, the weight of those words still bears heavily on my heart. It’s a story of abandonment, resilience, and finding strength within oneself to navigate a life that began with loss.
I don’t remember much from those early days, as most children that young wouldn’t. But what I do know comes from the fragments pieced together by social workers, foster parents, and the occasional distant relative. My parents, overwhelmed by their own struggles, made the decision to leave me behind. Whether it was fear, poverty, or something deeper that drove them to that choice, I’ll never truly know. What I do know is the emptiness their absence left behind.
My earliest memories are of moving from one foster home to another. Each time I tried to build connections, I was uprooted. The scent of different houses, the tone of new voices, and the rules that constantly changed were my constants. It’s a confusing experience for a child, to feel like a guest in what should feel like home. But even amidst the instability, I learned to adapt. I had to.
One of the hardest parts of growing up without my parents was the endless questioning. Why did they leave? Was I not enough? As a child, it’s hard not to internalize the actions of others, especially when those actions come from the very people meant to love and protect you. I spent countless nights lying awake, replaying scenarios in my head, imagining a different life where they stayed, where I wasn’t left behind.
Despite the pain, there were moments of light. I remember a foster mother who taught me how to bake cookies, her hands guiding mine as we rolled out the dough. I recall a teacher who noticed my love for drawing and encouraged me to express my feelings through art. These small acts of kindness became lifelines, anchoring me to hope when everything else felt adrift.
As I grew older, I started seeking answers. When I turned 18 and gained access to certain records, I learned more about my parents’ lives. My father had struggled with addiction, and my mother battled severe depression. Their decision to leave me wasn’t born out of malice but of deep personal struggles they couldn’t overcome. This revelation didn’t erase the pain, but it helped me understand that their choice was more about their battles than my worth.
Healing from abandonment is a journey. It’s not linear, and it’s certainly not easy. For years, I carried resentment, anger, and sadness like a heavy backpack. But over time, I realized that holding onto those emotions was only hurting me further. I started therapy, where I learned to process my feelings and rebuild my sense of self-worth. I surrounded myself with people who supported and loved me, creating a chosen family to fill the void left by my biological one.
Today, I’ve found a sense of peace. I’ve come to accept that my past doesn’t define me; rather, it’s the strength I’ve found in overcoming it that shapes who I am. I’ve built a life filled with love, purpose, and gratitude. While the scars of my childhood remain, they’ve become reminders of my resilience and capacity for growth.
To anyone who feels abandoned or unloved, I want to say this: your worth isn’t defined by who stays or leaves. It’s defined by the person you choose to become. Life can be profoundly unfair, but it can also be beautiful. There are people out there who will love you, cherish you, and see you for the incredible person you are. And most importantly, you have the power to love and cherish yourself.
The journey from abandonment to self-love isn’t easy, but it’s possible. I’m living proof. My family may have left me when I was two years old, but that wasn’t the end of my story. It was only the beginning.
