If you’re looking for some juicy tea to catch up on, you’re in the right place. My life has been a whirlwind of scandal, heartbreak, and downright mess. I’m finally ready to share every gritty detail. But I can’t just jump into how I watched as my mom was stabbed at the ripe age of 8 years old. Bear with me people, we will get to the juicy details. For you to truly understand my story, I’ll need to set the stage.

Let’s start with a quick disclaimer: this is my story, told entirely from my perspective. I know these posts will ruffle some feathers among those involved. For years, I held back, worried about how people, especially my family, would feel. But now, I’ve reached a point where I simply don’t care anymore.

And what could have led me to this point? Well after years of feeling like the family dumping zone, bank, and mediator, I’m simply not doing it anymore. I spent my life trying to please everyone, clinging to the hope of a close, picture-perfect family, even when reality proved otherwise. I tried, I failed, and now I’m ready to let it all out.

My life wasn’t always ugly, but it was destined to fail.

My earliest memories are happy ones, my parents married young and soon after began having children. I am the fourth of five siblings, and together we were deeply involved in our church, homeschooled, and inseparable as a family. Weekdays meant homeschooling with Mom while Dad returned on his lunch breaks carrying a fresh loaf of bread. Afternoons were filled with outdoor play or helping in Mom’s garden, and our evenings were reserved for family dinners and Bible study in the living room. Weekends brought zoo trips, visits to St. Augustine, and, of course, church every Sunday.

But that was a problem. The church was. a. problem. Remember when I said everything was destined to fail? It all started with the church. Now I am not anti-faith or against God, but our involvement in the church was nothing like you’d expect… and we didn’t realize it until it was too late.

My papa was fundamental evangelist. At the age of 28, he married my granny, who was 15, and they wasted no time; my dad was one of ten children. Now I don’t think he was a bad guy entirely but come on, there’s a lot of red flags here. As an evangelist, my papa traveled constantly, and because he could never hold down a steady job, poverty and instability marked my dad’s early life. Yet the defining aspect of my dad’s life was the abuse he suffered. Fundamental Baptists believe in corporal punishment, but what my dad endured went far beyond a mere spanking. He shared horrifying stories of how Papa would whip him and his siblings with extension cords. And it gets even stranger, my dad and his siblings still obsess over their father. The men strive to emulate him, while the women speak of him as if they’d gladly marry him if they could. It’s unsettling. This 5’3”, bald man not only beat them but also controlled their mother and indoctrinated his children with a warped ideology: women are merely breeding factories, children are slaves, and men are supreme. Above all, he instilled fear, that persists even after his death when I was just four years old. That was 25 years ago, yet they continue to both idolize and fear him, a man who, frankly, was nothing more than a delusional coward.

Religion ran deep in my dad. During this time, when life seemed so good, we were bound by its strict rules. My mom, sister and I were not allowed to wear pants. We only could wear skirts and dresses I remember once, as a four-year-old, watching Mom do laundry while wearing Dad’s jeans. I innocently asked if she’d go to hell for it, and though I can’t recall her exact explanation, I do remember resenting being a woman.

So let’s talk about my mom. I adored my mother. believed she was the most beautiful person on earth, and I longed to be just like her. Raised in a Baptist family that practiced a more moderate, “lukewarm” Christianity, she experienced faith without extremism. I don’t know much about her childhood, except that she definitely wore pants. A Cherokee woman of southern Alabama, she grew up riding horses and embraced life as a wild, free spirit. She rode bareback and drove a topless Camaro when she met Dad. Mom’s favorite band was Def Leppard. Although the life they built together might have sounded sweet in theory, it boxed her in. She was never a woman meant to be caged.

Fundamentalists can’t listen to rock and roll, and women cant wear bright colors. While it’s not an explicit rule, my mom driving her kids around in a Camaro certainly didn’t fit the image of a good Christian woman. Faced with these standards and the challenge of raising five kids, she ended up in a minivan, listening to bluegrass gospel music.

Now, I firmly believe in knowing what you’re getting into when you choose to marry someone. MY parents loved each other, I believe they were soul mates. They were a team and when I was a little girl I was infatuated by their love. My dad knew my mom was wild, that’s what he loved about her. My mom knew exactly who my dad was and what he thought was the standard of perfect wife and a good husband. I think my mom shared those same aspirations, but by that time, the church they attended had begun pushing the strict, hardcore fundamental beliefs that my dad came from.

You know where this is going. The whole thing blew up in our faces, setting off a cascade of events that would leave us reeling. As my mom spiraled into addiction, whispers of near-murder, suicidal breakdowns, and unexpected deaths began to surface. And then came my stepdad, once my dad’s best friend, whose arrival promised to twist our already shattered lives into even darker territory. What happens when betrayal, addiction, and a haunted past collide with the specters of attempted murder and death?

When I was 19, I wrote an Instagram caption about my complicated relationship with my mom (we’ll get into that later). To my surprise, it gained a lot of attention, and several people suggested I start a blog to share my life stories and experiences. Looking back, it’s incredible (and a little sad) that at just 19, I had already lived through so much that people wanted to hear more.

I’ve always liked the idea of writing a book, and now, at 28, more people than I can count have encouraged me to do just that. The problem? My childhood and young adult life were packed with so much trauma, drama, and confusion that the thought of revisiting it all is overwhelming.

The idea of trying to remember everything at once terrifies me, especially because there are long periods of my life that I simply can’t recall. It’s as if my mind has blocked out entire chapters just to survive. How do you write about memories that don’t exist? The thought alone makes me want to crawl under my desk and hide.

But maybe that’s exactly why I need to do this. Maybe the path to healing and truly rebuilding my life starts with facing the chaos and sharing my story, one piece at a time. Along with the fun and exciting parts of my current life and how I am working to build a life i deserve and cherish.

This is where my journey begins.