It was just before 7 a.m. on Tuesday, August 9, 2016, when my phone rang on my nightstand. It was my mom, and I noticed she had already called twice. Something was wrong. I quietly slipped out of bed and went to the guest room to answer. My mom’s voice was trembling with tears, and my stomach instantly turned to knots. She told me that my aunt’s house had burned to the ground the night before. Then, with a pause that felt like it lasted forever, she said, “Andrew didn’t make it out.” That was all I remember. I stumbled into the bathroom and threw up, overwhelmed by a flood of panic and disbelief. Back in my bedroom, I woke my husband, shaking, trying to explain between gasps that my “bad cousin” was dead. I hadn’t spoken to my aunt or cousins in fourteen years, yet this call shifted my entire life. For the first time, I felt the impossible: a strange mix of relief, freedom, and terror.
The first time it happened, I was six years old. I was upstairs in my childhood bedroom, coloring a beanie baby design I hoped to enter in a contest at the local bookstore. Andrew, only two years older than me, came in to hang out while the grownups were downstairs. He was my built-in buddy, and at first, it felt harmless when he suggested playing a game called “Truth or Dare.” I agreed. At first, it was fun and silly. But then the questions and dares crossed lines that no friend should ever cross. I remember the fear tightening in my throat, the confusion, and the way my small body felt trapped. After that day, everything changed, though I didn’t yet understand how deeply.
For eight years, it continued. Nearly every encounter with Andrew involved some twisted version of “Truth or Dare,” often late at night, in my house, his house, or our grandparents’ home. By age nine, I was terrified of the night. Sleep became a battleground of nightmares and anxiety. The only place I felt safe was my best friend’s farm, where her family’s warmth offered a haven he never invaded.
The last time it happened, I was fourteen, and he was seventeen. This time was different. Violent, aggressive, and threatening my life, he shattered the fragile illusion I’d been clinging to: that somehow he cared. That night, I locked myself in the bathroom, trembling until sunrise. Finally, with the first light, I moved to my bedroom, knowing he wouldn’t dare approach in daylight. That morning, as I sat for family breakfast, my grandpa began grace, and Andrew, sitting next to me, gripped my hand as hard as he could. In that moment, I made a decision: I was done. I didn’t yet know how, but I knew things had to change.
About a week later, I told my mom, after sending Andrew a message online: “I’m telling my mom right now.” I never spoke of the earlier years, not yet ready, and she seemed equally unprepared. The days that followed were chaotic—angry phone calls, fights between my mom, aunt, and grandpa, each with their opinions on what to do. Ultimately, my parents took me to the police, filing a report despite the rest of the family’s protests. Andrew eventually spent time in jail, but the victory was hollow. My family had been irrevocably altered, and guilt lingered despite knowing I hadn’t chosen any of it.
By middle school, the effects of years of abuse had taken a heavy toll. I picked at my scalp until it bled, battled chronic stomach inflammation, insomnia, anxiety, and depression. By eighth grade, I began self-medicating with alcohol. My first drink was transformative—a moment of release where nothing hurt, and I felt invincible. From there, it escalated. I stole drinks from my parents, drank to blackout, and relied on alcohol to dull the pain I had carried for so long.
High school and college were a blur of parties, house raids, sorority life, and reckless drinking. I graduated with a GPA over 3.0, yet life felt like a haze of alcohol-fueled numbness. My oldest brother’s overdose, just before his 35th birthday, compounded the pain. I tried to control it, rationalizing that I wasn’t “as bad” as he was, but deep down, I was spiraling. A DUI in my early twenties didn’t slow me down. I was terrified of confronting who I truly was without alcohol.
Then, my first son was born in 2015. He awakened a desire to be better, to truly show up as a mother. Yet struggles with secondary infertility followed, prolonging the shadows in my life. When Andrew died in 2016, I finally felt a freedom I had never known. For the first time, I could breathe, speak freely, and go to therapy without fear. His death broke the invisible chains he had held on me, and I began to face the feelings I had long suppressed.
Despite past rock bottoms, it wasn’t until January 10, 2020, that I committed to sobriety. After a disastrous dinner with friends, I realized I was missing life itself while drinking. I downloaded the “I Am Sober” app, declared my decision to my husband, and for the first weekend, faced the discomfort without numbing it. Each day I resisted alcohol, the ache lessened, and eventually, I found peace.
In the two years since, I’ve embraced therapy, confronted my trauma, and discovered who I am without self-medication. Diagnosed with complex PTSD, ADHD, anxiety, and depression, I now live with tools for healing rather than crutches. I drink tea, go to bed early, journal, hike, and love my life fully.
My journey has been painful, but profoundly beautiful. And as a testament to healing, five years after Andrew’s death, on August 9, 2021, my husband and I welcomed our rainbow baby. I survived. I healed. I thrived. I did it. Here’s to every step forward, and the life I now live fully awake, with joy, safety, and freedom.
