At an age when I should have been learning how to play, I was instead learning how to survive change. I didn’t understand courtrooms or legal terms, but I understood loss. I understood separation. I understood that life had shifted in a way I couldn’t explain, only feel.
My grandmother became my safe place. My protector. My anchor. She stepped in when everything else fell apart, carrying responsibilities that were never meant to be hers — and she did it with strength, sacrifice, and unwavering love. Because of her, I had stability. Because of her, I had a chance.
Still, the absence lingered.
There were questions no one had answers for. And even when answers came, they didn’t bring comfort — only more layers of confusion. How do you love someone you barely know? How do you miss someone who was never truly there? How do you grieve a relationship that never had time to exist?
I carried those questions quietly.
Growing up, I learned that addiction is not just a personal battle — it is a family storm. It touches everyone in its path. It reshapes homes, childhoods, futures. And often, it leaves behind children who grow up trying to understand what was never their fault.
But even in that pain, compassion began to grow.
Because brokenness does not mean absence of love. Sometimes it simply means the battle was bigger than the person.
And that truth — as painful as it is — became part of my healing.
“Healing from Bitterness, One Step at a Time.” 
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