I remember the feeling of my small, chubby hands clinging to my blanket as fear filled my body. Maybe if I held onto the fabric hard enough, the blanket would stay—and maybe, just maybe, it would bring me comfort. Unlike the mother I watched walk out the door. I believe it was that day that marked the beginning of my spiral into the mental and emotional struggles that still linger with me. That was the moment I stopped being a kid and instead became someone whose entire focus shifted toward seeking acceptance. I became a being who could do nothing but stare out the window, hoping a car would arrive. A being who packed a bag full of clothes every other week. A being who was constantly left—not just at home, but at school, or at my grandparents' house—always waiting for someone to pick me up. I never knew which parent it would be. I thought it was a single moment of separation that changed me. But it wasn’t. It was the prolonged experience of divorce—the slow unraveling—that impacted me most. I developed deep anxiety about people leaving me. If my parents could leave each other, the people they once pledged their lives to, then what could I possibly offer to make someone stay? I became unstable and erratic. There was no consistency in what was expected of me. On my dad’s days, I had to be on my best behavior and become a perfect little woman. But on my mom’s days, I was wild and free, with the wind in my hair as she told me it was Spirit chasing me. This created an identity crisis within me. Who was I really? Was I respectable, or was I free? Did either of those versions of myself even know each other? I didn’t know what was acceptable for a child. Was I supposed to listen quietly as my mother vented about the father I loved? Or was I supposed to pretend everything was fine while my father made lunch and dinner, keeping his feelings locked away? I was lost and confused. I still am. Eventually, I learned something else: I couldn’t trust anyone’s love. I had already seen love disappear. If someone who was supposed to love me could leave, then what did love really mean? So I acted out. If love could be forgotten, I needed to make sure I was unforgettable. I would yell, cry, kick, and scream. I would ignore my family, only to shower them later with an overwhelming burst of affection. In my mind, I couldn’t stop the inevitable disappointment. I had already been disappointed by the split, but it didn’t stop there. I was disappointed again and again—by forgotten pickups, missed calls, and distracted parents. It felt like their attention was always divided, like I was never the priority. Divorce has been part of almost my entire life, and I’m still dealing with the consequences. It shaped how I see love, how I form relationships, and how I view myself. It left me questioning everything and trusting no one completely. The effects didn’t end when the divorce papers were signed, they are still here.