Week 11 - Becoming Her - The Impossible Life

Elizabeth Ford
Jul 7
4 min read

Week 11: Becoming Her. The Woman I Used to Dream About

From voiceless to having a voice.

There was a time when I believed I’d never be more than a statistic.

Poor girl. High school dropout. Single mother. Broken woman. I played my mini violin a lot!

That was the script I was handed.

But that’s not the story I’m writing anymore.

I think back to the girl I used to be, sitting alone in my room, wishing for more.

More peace. More love. More of anything that felt like safety. My sweet cat would always be there with me while I cried my eyes out.

I would sing songs to myself, pouring every dream into the lyrics as if my voice could carry me out of that space. Waiting for my favorite song to come on the radio so I could press record on my boom box and play it over and over as I sang each word as if it was my own. I would stare out the window, not just daydreaming but begging for a different life. One where I had a beautiful bedroom, where I didn’t feel so tense all the time, where I could just be a "normal" girl.

But I wasn’t allowed to be.

By the time I turned twelve, my mother had completely checked out. The hospitalizations for her became more consistent, and she no longer did anything at all for me, aside from yell.

Whatever pieces of parenting she was still trying to hold onto before, they disappeared. That’s when everything shifted, and I stopped being a daughter and became a caretaker.

I was the one telling her to shower.

I was the one hearing her tears as she cried and screamed.

I cleaned the house, took out the trash, unclogged the toilet, changed lightbulbs, and stayed plain miserable and hungry.

I remember using a bar of soap to wash my socks in the bathroom sink, scrubbing and rinsing just to have something clean to wear. That same soap was all I had for my own hygiene too.

There was no backup. No support system.

Just me 12 years old, trying to be the adult in a world that kept forgetting I was still a child.

But I did have one break.

Though I barely knew my dad at the time, he did something that became a small piece of rescue, he sent me to an all-girls camp for four weeks. I had never felt so free.

No, I didn’t have the pretty clothes the other girls had.

In fact, I had to bring my mom’s oversized bathing suit because we couldn’t afford one for me. But I didn’t care.

Every morning I would wake up to the smell of syrup from the dining hall and know they had pancakes, laughter, camp songs. I loved my life for a time. I felt light. I felt like a child again.

But summer had to end.

There were no open arms. No “I missed you.”

In fact, while I was at camp, I noticed every other girl getting mail and care packages. Little reminders from home that they were thought of, loved, seen.

But I never got a single one.

Even during that blissful time, that absence kept me in check. It reminded me not to get too comfortable with happiness. Because it had a way of running out.

When I returned home, I didn’t get a welcome hug or even a moment of conversation.

Instead, she told me to empty out my camp trunk because she needed to use it as a coffee table.

And just like that, joy gave way to reality.

Life started again.

But I held onto that camp.

That moment. That feeling of joy.

It became something I could return to in my heart when everything else around me felt too heavy to carry.

Now, years later, I see myself becoming her, the woman that little girl used to dream about.

I’ve gone from begging for quarters to being a woman who signs the checks.

From hiding bruises with makeup to standing in rooms where my voice is heard.

From being afraid to speak to strangers or others in fear I would not use proper grammar to leading conversations and speaking in public.

From feeling like an outsider to realizing I belong in every space God places me in.

This isn’t about perfection.

This is about becoming.

Some days, I still catch myself second-guessing everything.

Will I be judged?

Will they know where I came from? Did I watch how I spoke?

Will they think I don’t belong?

But then I remember

I may not have grown up with a silver spoon, but I carry a golden strength.

And that cannot be taken.

I want every one reading this to know:

You don’t need a title, a platform, or a polished past to be powerful.

You just need courage.

And the willingness to take one more step forward.

Give yourself grace and time.

Keep becoming.

Keep building.

Keep showing up even when your hands are still shaking.

Because the person you’re becoming is worth it.

Weekly Reflection

Ask yourself this:

Who is the version of you that you used to dream about?
What part of that person are you already becoming?
Where can you show up more boldly this week, even if you still feel a little broken?