BY Tracy Watts
Part One: Beginnings
I was born in Cleveland, Ohio—at the very edge of the rusted city where dreams often
crumbled like its old factories. The eldest of three children, my existence was like a song without
a melody, anticipated yet unplanned. My parents, mere kids themselves when they had me, met
in high school, two teenagers swept up in illusions of love and freedom. They called me Tracy,
but I was supposed to be a footnote in the story of their lives—a premise that nearly slipped
through the cracks before I even took my first breath.
I did not know it then, but the first moment the weight of trauma was during one of those
parties my parents threw, filled with laughter and clinking glasses, while the children were
shoved off to the side like an afterthought. As the oldest, I was reluctantly appointed as the
babysitter—the untrained night guard in a world of chaos.
1“Don’t you dare turn on the television!” Tracy’s dad warned, casting a stern glare that
shattered the jovial air. Tracy, the smallest of us, nodded with eyes wide, swallowing his fear like
a stone. As the door clicked shut behind him, the temptation wafted through the room like sweet
poison.
Moments later, the world shifted. I watched in horror as Tracy’s younger brother, full of
boundless curiosity, wandered towards the flickering machine. Before we could intervene, the
screen lit up, drowning the room in a cacophony of sound. It was as if the very fabric of our
carefree bubble had popped.
“Who turned on that television?” Tracy’s father bellowed, crashing through the door like
a storm. The children froze, eyes wide, hearts pounding in their chests. “It was him!” we
exclaimed, pointing at Tracy’s little brother in a chorus of self-preservation.
But the angry tide had already claimed an innocent soul. Tracy was snatched by the arm,
his small frame lifting off the ground before crashing back to reality with a sickening thud. “I
didn’t do it,” he cried, but the words feel impotent against the surge of his father’s rage. The
echoes of his cries blended with the heart-wrenching realization that sometimes love is declared
in fists.
As I sat in the corner, holding my own trembling body, I felt my childhood darkening like
a shadow stretched over the sun, a reminder that home could sometimes feel like a battlefield.
Part Two: The Teen Years
Those childhood moments morphed into a collage of raw memories, many hues of rage
and fear painting the walls of my young mind. Years later, that shadow grew, wrapping its
tendrils around my teenage years—an age where every moment felt amplified.
It started in the morning when I helped my father load his tools into the car, another cold
Cleveland dawn breaking over everything. I was his shadow, preparing him for a day of labor
while jaws chattered about dreams of independence and escape. The rush for breakfast was a
countdown, for I would leave for school at 7:30 AM.
But this day was different.
Sitting in the science class, I suddenly felt a weight pushing down on my chest, squeezing
the air from my lungs. I realized my homework was left behind, a minor detail that turned
catastrophic in my anxious mind. “He will find out,” the voice whispered, growing louder, “and
when he does, he’s going to kill you.”
Time itself seemed a cruel master, stretching and slowing as I fidgeted on my stool,
desperately hoping to melt into the surroundings. The teacher’s voice became a distant echo,
drumming in my ears, while the clock ticked like a metronome of doom.
1Then it happened: the dreaded gaze.
“Tracy,” the teacher called, snapping me from my fog. I could feel my heart pulse wildly,
my mind blanking as I stood, limbs trembling. I gripped the table until my knuckles turned
white, spilling my fears as I stumbled into the light.
“Try again,” came the command, and just like that, I faltered. The moment stretched
longer than the silence that hung around me, and the eyes of my classmates, filled always with
quiet pity, were now shadows of judgment.
The worst day was just beginning. That afternoon, my mother sat me down, her eyes
brimming with unshed tears. “You’re not alone, sweetheart,” she said softly, “they’ve taken
something from you.” I was a victim—a label that felt foreign, heavy. The truth clawed its way
to the surface, and echoes of my childhood chastisement blared rudely in my mind.
Part Three: Healing Shadows
In the years that followed, I learned to navigate my scars, using them as steppingstones
instead of chains. I found an unexpected strength in sharing my story, learning that vulnerability
was not a curse but a bridge to healing.
It was during one of those sessions, when I found a girl—bright-eyed but broken—who
had just graduated high school, battling her own demons. She had faced a horror that no one
should carry the weight of shame like a shroud. “It was my fault,” she whispered, the words
slicing through the air.
I placed my hands on her shoulders. “No! You must listen to me. It was never your fault.”
I told her my story, how I had learned that pain does not discriminate, and healing is possible;
how shadows can fade as dawn breaks.
Even when I did not notice, I became a beacon for others, a lighthouse amidst a storm,
guiding lost ships safely to shore. I stood with the girl, not just an outsider peering in, but a
soldier who had also weathered the storm, encouraging her to seek light once more.
I found my voice through the pain, my purpose intertwined with the humanity of those
around me. Each moment of trauma became a lesson; each wound healed only to create room for
connection. I had been born a preemie, unplanned and unwanted, but I grew into something
resilient and vibrant—a testament that even in shadows, light could blossom.
The Nest of Hope
Cleveland still hums with the ghosts of my past, but I stand ready to fight not just my
battles but also those of others. I have turned their anguish into empathy, and their strife into
1strength, paving paths out of darkness and into the dawn. Through the power of connection, we
can rise together, and, one day, we will find solace beneath the light of healing.
James R Lilith Foundation 