#QuaratineLife
We are in the beginning of a really challenging time, so I wanted to share part of my story in hopes that some of the life lessons I learned while going through my own challenges might help you.

I was between 3-8mos old when
I had been abandoned in one state,
then put up for adoption in another,
then kidnapped by my birth mother
and left again in the first—
luckily with the sweet older lady with whom I bonded when I was 3mo old.

She became my family, my rock.

I was 6 years old, when my birth mom got custody of my sister, 6 yrs older than I, and thought it’d be a great time to play house.

So Birtha—how my sister & I later came to refer to our birth mother— took me away from the only home (and family) I knew.

It lasted a month or 2

I was brought home to live with gram.
My sister was put in state foster care.

Colleagues & friends loved Birtha, but she wasn’t cut out for kids. Our oldest sister —10y my senior—was left as a toddler in in Europe when Birtha defected in the 60s.

I was happy, I loved my home with gram. Birtha visited for 30min a week and I had to spend major holidays with her and my step-father.

I just remember always feeling uncomfortable around them.

All I wanted was to be home with gram.

When I was 12, gram got sick. I got a call at school. I was told I would be spending the weekend with my “parents”.

— strangers, really.

The next morning I was informed that I’d be staying there permanently.

It was like going from a happy, loving family to moving in with strangers who didn’t like you.

Even after gram recovered, they wouldn’t let me go home.
“This is your home”
(no it wasn’t)

The next four years were filled with emotional and physical abuse. I loved school & books because they allowed me to escape.. but I was always prepared mentally for whatever would happen when I got home.

Like others who survive abuse, I also learned to read tiny facial & vocal changes to gauge what kind of day the “parents’” moods would inspire.

And each day was different.

I learned to live a moment at a time while hoping for the best & preparing myself for the worst.

I cherished my memories.
I daydreamed a lot.

Even on a really dark day, I somehow knew it was temporary; that the light would overpower the darkness.

I also knew there was no point in fighting without a sliver of hope.

I knew this because I allowed that darkness to creep in just one time. Luckily I survived.

I promised myself I would never again let hope to slip away.

I haven’t.
I won’t.

I got out of there when I was 16.
Life got better.

I forgave Birtha and her husband.
It felt good.

Forgiveness didn’t let them off the hook.

It set me free.

When I was 23, my best friend—my other half—was killed in an accident.

It was devastating.

The last time I saw her, she was home from the Americorps and took time to visit.

I was in a mood & not the greatest hostess.

She let me know.
I’m glad she did.
She told me how I had hurt her feelings & that I had been selfish.

She was right.
I apologized.
We made up.

She died 3mos later.

I never got to say goodbye.
I did get the chance to say “I‘m sorry”.

For this—I am eternally grateful.

#QuarantineLife (bc I grabbed the misspelled hashtag in the beginning )

This is temporary.
It’s all temporary.

Cherish the little things.
Be prepared.
Be honest.
Don’t hide your feelings—
Apologize and forgive—
you might not get another chance.
Take each moment as it comes and do your best within it.
Stay calm.

Smile — it’s contagious.