My hands were drenched in the fluids of my mother’s broken body, while my mind was further tortured by the twisted funhouse world of my grandmother’s creation. I was in the center of toxicity without a hazmat suit.
We’ve all messed up. We’ve all failed. We may not all have the same stories, but we all have backpacks. This journey has helped me to be thankful for my backpack. To be thankful for the tears and the hardships and the challenges.