Unbecoming Her

My earliest memory isn’t clear in details.

It’s clear in feeling.

Darkness.
A closed door.
And the sound of my own voice trying to be heard.

I must have been around four.

We were living in a back house or garage. My parents had people over—music, conversation, laughter drifting through the walls.

At some point, I was taken into a room.

I don’t remember what I did wrong.
I don’t even know if I did anything at all.

I just remember the door closing.

And locking.

At first, I knocked softly.

Then harder.

My hands gripped the knob, twisting, pulling—
but it wouldn’t open.

Panic came quickly.

I started pounding with both fists.
Calling out for my mom. My dad.

My voice got louder.
My chest tighter.
My throat burned as my cries turned into screams.

And still…nothing.

Just the muffled sound of music and laughter on the other side.

Then I saw it.

In the faint light from the window, my reflection in a mirror behind the door.

A little girl in pajamas.
Tear-streaked face.
Fists clenched.

Frozen somewhere between crying
and realizing no one was coming.

I don’t remember how it ended.

I just remember that moment.

And the understanding that came with it—
even without words.

That my voice could carry…
and still go unanswered.

~~~

I’ve been revisiting this memory.

For a long time, I believed that moment meant something about me.

That I was helpless.
That there was no point in calling out.
That even if I needed someone—no one would come.

And I carried that with me.

I learned to rely on myself.
To take care of myself.
To trust no one but me.

Because that felt safer than needing something I might not get.

~~

But looking at it now…

I see it differently.

I see a little girl who didn’t stop knocking.
Who didn’t stay quiet.
Who used her voice—even when it went unanswered.

I wasn’t weak.

I was responding the only way I knew how.

And maybe the truth isn’t that I was helpless…

Maybe it’s that surviving alone isn’t the same as being meant to.