What Never Left Me

I am not sure how to start this conversation, so I am going to be direct.

I am not asking anyone to agree or disagree.
This is simply my experience—and how it connects to what I see in our current environment.

Forty-five years ago, I witnessed and experienced domestic violence.

It was not just physical.

Some people know parts of my past. Others do not.

What I lived through involved gun violence during a domestic argument.

Those years were the darkest of my life. I had no control.

My two sisters and I could do nothing but watch as it unfolded.

As a child, watching my sister being shot—along with my mother and another person—is something that never leaves you.

Time does not erase a moment like that. It just changes how it lives in you.

At that age, I could not process what I was seeing. I only knew fear, confusion, and helplessness.

That lack of control was not just emotional—it was physical.

It felt like being frozen. Like my voice did not exist. Like nothing I did would matter.

For years, I carried that without fully understanding it.

Only in the last decade have I begun to face what it did to me.

PTSD has played a significant role—especially between Christmas and Easter.

During that time, it shows up in ways I cannot ignore.

Sleep becomes inconsistent. My mind revisits what I tried to put away.

I become more alert—sometimes overly aware of people, sound, and movement.

There are days I withdraw. Days where tension sits just beneath the surface.

This is not just memory. It feels present.

The lack of control I felt as a child still finds me.

At times, I try to control everything—situations, outcomes, even small details—just to avoid that feeling again.

Other times, it goes the opposite direction.

Something minor—and suddenly there is that same sense of powerlessness.

It does not match the moment. But it is there.

It has shaped how I connect with people.

Trust does not come easily.

There are times I keep distance without meaning to. Times where emotional closeness feels complicated—because part of me is always aware of how quickly things can change.

There is one person who was there for my sister and me in April of 1981.

I will leave her name out unless she chooses to share it.

But her presence mattered.

In the middle of everything, she was steady. She saw us. She understood the grief we were carrying.

That kind of presence stays with you. It becomes part of how you define support.

Over the years, I made the decision to forgive the man responsible.

Not in a single moment—but over time.

We spoke. We exchanged letters.

Forgiveness, for me, was not about excusing what happened. And it was not about forgetting.

It was about letting go of the hold that anger had on my life.

But forgiveness did not erase the trauma. It did not take away the memories or the impact. Those are separate things.

What has made this more difficult in recent years is the environment we are living in.

The constant exposure to violence—through news, social media, and public conversation—does not stay outside.

Sometimes it only takes a headline, a clip, a few seconds.

And my body reacts before my mind catches up.

Tension. Awareness. A pull backward.

Not into the past—but into something that feels like it is happening now.

So I am no longer trying to push it away. I am facing it.

That means acknowledging what was never fully processed—betrayal, loss, anger, hurt—and allowing it to exist without avoiding it.

Moving forward, for me, is intentional.

It is writing about it. Recognizing when I am triggered. Taking a step back—and asking why.

It is understood that I can respond differently now than I could then.

Healing is not about erasing the past.

It is about not allowing it to control how I live in the present.

I do not have all the answers. I am still working through this.

But I am no longer that child standing in a moment I could not control.

I am here now.

With a voice. With a choice.

And that is where my life continues.

To anyone carrying something they were never meant to carry—

You made it through what should have broken you.

And even now, as it comes back in pieces, you are still standing.

That is not a weakness.

That is a strength most people will never fully understand.

Written by: Greg MD