I never thought I’d be sharing this part of my story publicly, but here I am. Not for sympathy, but for healing—for me, and maybe for someone else who is still stuck in silence and pain. My childhood was not easy, and behind the smile, I was hiding and carrying pain no child should ever have to hold.
Growing up, it was me, my mom, my dad, and my two brothers. We lived in a tiny studio in downtown L.A., alongside three other families, about thirteen people under one roof. Our makeshift playground was the long walk-in closet, where I still remember the joy of playing hide-and-seek among the hanging clothes. But that joy was shattered by my earliest real memory of trauma.
One day, when I was about five years old, I walked into the bathroom and saw my father in the tub, covered in blood. I remember screaming and crying uncontrollably. That image stayed with me—I had nightmares about it for years. But every time I asked my mom about it, she insisted it was just a bad dream. And for a long time, I believed in her. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-20s that I reconnected with one of the older kids we used to live with in the studio. During our conversation, she confirmed that what I saw really did happen. My father had tried to take his own life by cutting his veins after my mom told him she wanted to end the relationship.
My mom was a single mother doing her best to make ends meet. My father was never a real provider or partner—he simply refused to grow up. Eventually, my mom had enough and tried, once again, to end things with him. The last memory I had of him at that time was when I was five years old. We were still living in that crowded studio on the third floor. I remember the adults telling all the kids to stay away from the windows. But I was curious, and somehow, I made my way over and peeked outside. I saw three police cars parked below, officers looking up—not at me, but at my father. He was standing on the edge of the third-story window ledge, threatening to jump. He was trying to take his own life again because my mom was leaving him.
Thankfully, he didn’t go through with it. The police were able to get him down, and he was arrested. Not long after, he was deported back to Mexico. We didn’t hear from him for many years after that. But looking back, I realized that moment when he finally left, that’s when everything else began.
Because space was so limited in the studio apartment, everyone slept wherever they could. Some had bunk beds, others unfolded temporary beds each night. My brothers and I shared a pull-out sofa bed. My mom worked night shifts, doing everything she could as a single mother to provide for us. It was during one of those nights—while she was away at work—that I experienced something that would change me forever.
I remember being awakened by one of the men who also lived in the studio. I was lying between my brothers when he quietly moved one of them aside just so he could lay down next to me. That’s when it began. He started touching me. I remember freezing. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. Like so many other children who go through abuse, I was overwhelmed with fear. I stayed silent. I didn’t tell a soul. That night marked the beginning of a long journey, a painful one I carried in silence for far too long.
The next morning, when my mother came home, I wanted so badly to tell her what happened. But I was terrified. He didn’t have to threaten me into silence—I just instinctively knew not to say anything. And so, I didn’t.
The next night, as my mom was getting ready to leave for work, I broke down. I started crying and throwing a tantrum, begging her not to go. Imagine a little girl sobbing and pleading with her mom to stay—but I wasn’t a toddler. I was about five, maybe six years old, and I had never acted like that before. My mom probably thought I was just being emotional or having a tough night. She left for work like usual, not knowing what I was really feeling. While everyone in the house was still awake, I felt okay. But once bedtime came and the lights went out, the fear crept in again. I remember feeling so scared I couldn’t fall asleep. And when I finally did, I was jolted awake—he was there again, trying to lie down next to me. He moved my brothers out of the way and proceeded to molest me. Something changed in me that day.
You know, I still wonder how something like that could happen in a small studio packed with four other adults. How does a grown man get away with doing something so evil in such a tight space? Did anyone see anything? And if they did, why didn’t they say something? Was it fear? Denial? Or was it just one of those things people didn’t talk about back then?
For a long time, I carried that silence as if it was mine to hold. Listening to Joyce Meyer has helped me begin to heal. Her story—how she was sexually abused by her own father for years, and how her mother stayed silent out of fear of what people would think—hit me deeply. It opened my eyes and reminded me that I’m not alone. What happened to me was not my fault. And most importantly, that I have no reason to carry shame for someone else’s actions.
Holy mess 