Vanilla Wafers

You may be wondering why the title of this blog post is called vanilla wafers. That’s pretty valid. I am going to share a story with you that very few people know about. This story is about one of my earliest memories. It’s about overcoming a sense of pain that has followed me into my adult years and, somehow, eventually gave me purpose. I contemplated sharing such a vulnerable moment in my life, especially with strangers, but I am finally at a point where I am ready to share my truth and let my truth guide the way. This story is about a three-year-old little girl, consumed with fear, and how she turned her fear into hope. 

As I sit in the backseat, listening to my mother's tears, with the faint sounds of Christmas music playing on the radio, I am met with confusion as my eyes follow the never-ending sight of corn fields along the road. I know something isn’t right. I can sense the fearful energy, on the verge of swallowing me whole. I’m not sure where we are going, but it must be somewhere safe. I hope it is somewhere safe. Finally, we pulled into a parking lot I had never been to. My mom looks behind her seat at me, as she wipes away the tears in her eyes. But I can still see the piercing fear of the unknown looking right back at me. “Are you ready, sweetie?” she asks. I nod but I don’t know what I am ready for. 

We get out of the car and walk to the front door. We walk through several doors and get buzzed in. My mom talks with people behind a desk, filling out paperwork, and asking me not to go far. I glance around me and see children and mothers dispersed around the room next to me. A small TV playing cartoons, board games, and books make up the rest of the room. My mom takes my hand and we follow a lady down a long hallway. She takes us to a room, unlocks a door, and guides us in. The room is made up of yellow walls, a dresser, cold floor tiles, and a metal bunk bed. We set our things down and the lady leaves us alone. I’ll never forget the small yellow room I had to sleep in for days. My mom takes my hand again and leads me to the room I had glanced into before. I sit down at one of the vacant tables. Nothing but a lone box of vanilla wafers comforts me. Little did I know that vanilla wafers were going to become a trigger for years to come. I stuck my tiny hand into the box and thought about how cool it was that I had free reigns over a box of cookies. The fear began to dissipate for a few minutes. I eventually picked my head back up and looked around the room. I saw crying babies, kids coloring pictures, and mothers snuggled with their kids watching a poorly pictured cartoon. Suddenly, the vanilla wafers didn’t make me feel safe anymore and the fear began to consume me yet again. Where was I? 

I was at a shelter for battered women. A place I may have been safe at but felt quite the opposite at the time. During this time in my life, my mother had finally left my father. After many years of abuse, my mother was strong enough to walk away and seek shelter. I was only three at the time and couldn’t conceptualize where I was or why I was there. But I trusted my mom and knew she brought me somewhere we could be free. But inevitably, I was still terrified and she was too. My mom and I have a very close relationship, some others may deem it as “weird,” which I am not going to disagree with. She and I have been a team since the very beginning. We endured pain that no child and no mother should ever have to experience. We have let fear follow us for so much of our lives, which is why we are so close. We were the glue that held each other together and made each other feel safe. We have depended on one another in times when it was really hard to keep going. She truly is my best friend and the greatest mother I could have ever asked for. I am so incredibly proud of her and I know she is proud of me. 

Since that day at the table with the lone box of vanilla wafers, I have struggled to allow myself to move forward. I have dwelled on my past and have dismissed any hope for my future. I fell into the statistics for kids who were faced with an adverse childhood experience and told myself my behaviors were validated because of what I had survived. Any time I went to the grocery store and saw a box of vanilla wafers, I quickly turned away and went back to the same table I sat at when I was three years old. More likely than not, that night, I went to a strange house with friends and exchanged substances to deal with the aftermath of the image of vanilla wafers. As I made my way through college (somehow), I began to discover my purpose. I continued my way through therapy, self-care practices, and mindfulness. I began to allow myself to acknowledge the pain and the discomfort that followed me all these years. Rather than running away, I started to cope. I started to share my truths, be assertive, and take the steps towards truly healing the wounds that had been open for far too long. Today, as I write this, I am a week away from graduating with a Master's degree, with honors, in Family and Consumer Sciences. I have been coaching families from all over the country, on how to break their generational parenting cycles, heal their open wounds, and develop new patterns to give their children a standing chance at success. I have never in my life been so damn proud to be the person I am today and I am honored to work with each family who has shared their life with me. 

Earlier this week, I finished my final portfolio for school. A few minutes later, I went to make a cup of coffee in the shared office space. Often, there are snacks for anyone to enjoy next to the coffee maker. I noticed a bag of vanilla wafers, sitting there, right next to my coffee. I smiled and I grabbed them on my way out. I sat in my car, stared at them, and said thank you. This time, the vanilla wafers tasted much better. This time, I had so much more hope.