Meet Taylor

I didn't grow up with bedtime stories.

I grew up with slammed doors.
Heavy footsteps.
And the sound of a bottle… hitting the counter.

I learned early—
love could disappear overnight.
Eyes could go empty.
Voices could turn mean.

My mom… she wasn't evil. But she was lost. Drowning in things no one ever helped her face. And as for me — I watched it all. Felt it all. Carried it… like it was mine to fix.

For a long time, I thought this was how life worked. You cope. You numb. You survive. You don't talk about it. And if you're not careful… you become it.

I saw it happening — in my habits, in my reactions, in the way my pain started to feel familiar. Like the parts of home I never asked for.

But something in me said — no.
This won't be my ending.

So I did the hardest thing a person can do — I stopped running. I felt it. All of it. The anger. The grief. The abandonment. The love little me never got to keep. I sat in it… even when everything in me wanted to escape it.

And it broke me open.

Not pretty. Not graceful. Real.

But piece by piece — I rebuilt. Different.

And if you're watching me… and this feels a little too familiar — that's not coincidence.