For years, I kept my stepfather’s abuse buried, hoping it ended with me. I believed that with enough distance and time, I would heal. My mom eventually divorced him, and though he was the only father figure I’d ever known, I hoped that was the end of his reach into my life. But even after the divorce, he remained present. He remarried, and every other weekend, I’d still visit him, just like any other kid with separated parents. I had a stepsister I cared for and friends in his neighborhood. I thought that, as I got older, his abuse would stop, that he would be afraid to try anything. In a way, the physical part did stop, but the abuse was far from over. His direct control shifted into something more subtle, but the abuse, manipulation, and fear lingered. The abuse became indirect, more insidious.

He married a woman with young kids, including a daughter I felt fiercely protective of. Every visit, I worried about her, the way he looked at her, the casual comments he’d make. I wanted to say something, to warn someone, but the fear of unleashing the truth held me back. I felt alone in a crowded family, silently watching out for her.

Meanwhile, my mom had remarried, and I gained new stepsiblings. For a brief moment, it felt like a second chance, having sisters, being part of a bigger family. But as much as we tried, we couldn’t ignore the scars we each carried. They had their own traumas and their own pain, and blending into a family felt impossible.

My new stepfather, a kind man with a love for the outdoors, introduced me to hiking and camping, activities that have since become a huge part of my life because of him. But even he carried his own demons. Alcohol could turn him from the funniest, most caring dad to someone who knew exactly how to hurt you with his words. Living with these extremes of kindness and cruelty made trust difficult; I learned to always keep a guard up, even with those I loved most.