I was 5 years old when I moved to the States. I remember walking through the airport tarmac, about to embrace two adults I knew as my parents. I could see the excitement on my dad’s face, but my mother, who was walking alongside him, didn’t look as thrilled. Something deep inside me sensed that something was wrong.

We went home, and Dad started drinking, celebrating in his own way. My mother, however, began making small jabs at me—pushing and shoving me hard. I ran to my uncle, the one who brought me to America, and clung to him. He was my protector. I remember holding onto his legs, hiding between them. I don’t recall if I told him what was happening, but I do remember him calling my mother out, confronting her about something important. They argued, and as she and I locked eyes, I saw a look that said, *I’ll get you next time*.

Days passed, and it was time for my uncle to leave. The day he flew out, I was left alone with my mother. That same day, we sat at the dining table for her to teach me English and my ABCs. I struggled, not understanding, as I was already fluent in my native language. After a few minutes of frustration, she screamed at me. I felt the pressure, but I just couldn’t get it right. She became more and more frustrated, until finally, she walked over to the window, grabbed the wooden ledge holding it up, and struck my fingers with it.

In that moment, terror surged through my body like never before. I was shocked, scared, and traumatized. My whole body felt this strange sensation—a wave of fear. From that moment on, I knew my life was over because this was now my permanent home, and my uncle wouldn’t be coming back to save me.

Bruises began to appear on my body, and my dad started noticing them when he came home from drinking and partying with his friends on Friday and Saturday nights. He would fight with my mother, and it seemed like he was standing up for me, but instead, it made things worse. Every time they argued, she abused me three times worse the next day. This cycle continued until I stopped showing him the bruises. I found every excuse for him not to see them. This went on for 13 years.

I stayed silent, but he knew it was happening. Occasionally, when a situation arose where I desperately needed him to step in and protect me, he turned a blind eye. He put everything else—his job, friends, and partying—ahead of me. It felt like he was being selfish, choosing to console his own emotions instead of mine. His absence showed me that I wasn’t important enough to save. He couldn’t even bear to witness his own daughter being abused.

Because of his absence, my mother’s control over me grew. The abuse escalated quickly—from being burned with an iron on my face and stomach to having my head cut open. I was rushed to the doctor because my head wouldn’t stop bleeding. You would think this would get his attention, but it didn’t. His absence allowed the abuse to flourish. I hoped after that incident he would finally step in and protect me, but he didn’t. He continued on with his life. And this was only a few months after moving to America.

The emotional scars left by my mother’s abuse and my father’s neglect were unimaginable. Sorrow crept into my soul every day. I cried oceans of tears. It was unbearable, but somehow, I survived.

As I entered adulthood, the betrayal from both parents made healing that much more challenging. I sought protection from the wrong people, trusting those I shouldn’t have because I never learned discernment. How could I, when the people who were supposed to protect me were the ones I couldn’t trust? Building relationships later in life became difficult. But despite feeling beaten, scorned, and tired, I am still a fighter. I found ways to heal despite the lack of protection from the one person who should have stood by my side.

As painful as it is to say, there will be people, even blood relatives, who choose not to protect us. While this reality is heartbreaking, it doesn’t define our worth or strength today. I still found a way to survive.

Needless to say, my dad did fight—for things that were important to him, like his own comfort, freedom, and social life. But when it came to fighting for me, to protect me from the abuse, he didn’t step up. He fought for what mattered to him, but tragically, I wasn’t one of those things. 

Today, I chose to put myself first before him, cutting all ties. I’m finally fighting. for. me.