People used to tell me that I was from a broken family. They would tiptoe around my feelings like I was a glass cracked into shards. You see, when I was in sixth grade, I listened every night to yelling, smashing, fighting. I sat on the staircase and heard my parents' voices—not what they were saying— only booming anger coming from their throats. My dad had cheated on my mom with my best friend's mom. I would sit alone at the top of my stairs wondering if somehow this was my fault. If only I hadn't become best friends with Alicia, then my dad would never have met Marie. Suddenly, my best friend was the enemy, and her mom was now the evil stepmother. I resented them. I was 12 years old, living with a depressed, working mom, packing my possessions every week, putting on a happy face to tough it out.
With my dad gone, I became an expert at snaking the sink, pulling gunk out of our old pipes. Then it was light bulbs, heavy lifting, fixing appliances. These odd jobs all presented challenges in their own ways, but the most challenging job of them all was taking care of my mom.
One night we pulled up in front of the house. It was gloomy outside, pouring rain, and my mom burst into tears, bashing her hands against the steering wheel. I took her inside and lay her down on the couch, getting her a glass of water. I sat on the floor next to her, held her hand and just... listened. She talked to me for two hours, about her fears, her emotions, her worries for me as a child from a broken family. I reassured her that I didn't blame her for any of it, and finally, she looked up at me with something other than sadness. I knew then, that human connection was based on sharing vulnerability. A quiet moment of understanding, in my mom's distraught state, was all it took for her to let go and remember that I was still there for her.
After that, I decided to share my vulnerabilities as well. I asked my parents about love and loyalty and shared my own doubts about the future. My parents helped me accept that no matter who else they loved or how they were feeling, they would always love me. At peace with myself, I realized that in order to build any human relationships, I needed to be authentic. I couldn't hide behind the image of toughness I had built as a scared 12-year-old.
Alicia and I mended our friendship in our new living room, sitting on mismatched pillows pulled from our original houses. Then, I opened my heart and mind to the rest of my new stepfamily. It turned out that we shared many of the same feelings, and we would sit by the dining room table, laughing and crying together until well past midnight. From that point on, I decided that I would build relationships by being a genuine person, an open book, the real me. All over the world, from forming instantaneous friendships at youth conferences like Boys' State, to helping my grandpa take a shower every other night, to hanging out with friends, I've listened to stories, I've told my own, and I've connected on a real human level with people whom I had met for a few minutes or whom I had known all my life.
So yes, maybe I'm a little frayed at the edges, with a family that's been pieced apart and glued back together. But I'm not broken. And being a little cracked and dented isn't that bad — after all, only through the cracks can your light shine through.