I was about 7 years old as I stared down at the little red journal I found tucked away in my moms drawer. My heart was beating wildly; out of curiosity and out of fear I would be caught rummaging through her things.

Within the beautiful journal were words I would never forget, and would come to have burned in my brain all the way up until adulthood. Questions to herself if I was a mistake, and much self doubt and discomfort laid upon those pages.

She always brought up how she left her “lucrative career” to adopt me and stay at home with me because I was so difficult and time consuming. Money towards therapists, developmental doctors, prescription, all down the drain. Endless activities to keep me out of the house kept me busy, and when I wasn’t doing an activity or being stuck at a therapy appointment, I was in school.

To be continued…..