“How I Faced the Hidden Grief of a Childhood Stolen by Addiction and Loss — And Found Healing in Graduation at 36”

You always imagine that the happiest days of your life will feel like sunshine. Bright. Joyful. Complete.

But no one tells you that sometimes, joy makes room for sorrow. That sometimes, your proudest moment can break your heart.

It happened to me. And I didn’t see it coming.

When I was little, I used to dream of walking the campus of the University of Florida. I could picture it so clearly—me in a dorm room, wearing orange and blue, running to class with a coffee in hand. I wanted that college life so badly it hurt.

But dreams don’t always come true the way we expect.

At 16, my life veered off course. My parents were battling addiction, and the chaos of it all swallowed me whole. I dropped out of high school. My body was riddled with anxiety, my mind with fear. I got my GED, but everything after that felt like survival mode.

Then came the summer I was supposed to graduate high school—both of my parents died. Three weeks apart. Just like that. I was 18, grieving two lives and carrying the weight of my own.

Before that year ended, I got married. What came after were fourteen years that feel like a blur—years shadowed by control, fear, and hurt. I stayed trapped longer than I ever wanted to, but eventually, I found the strength to break free. With my three children, I walked away from it all. For months, we had nowhere to call home.

But even in the middle of all that brokenness, something stirred inside me. A little piece of that old dream still lived.

So I went back to school.

I enrolled in the University of Florida’s online program, fueled by a fierce determination to chase the dreams I once had as a child. Then, in April 2022, at the age of 36, I crossed the finish line—I graduated. Wearing the cap and gown I never had the chance to wear as a teenager, I walked across that stage and finally became the student I had always dreamed of being.

And I thought that moment would feel like healing.

It did. But it also brought with it a wave I hadn’t expected.

The weekend of my graduation was magical. For the first time, I visited the campus I’d only ever seen in my dreams. I walked those brick paths like a young girl chasing hope. I stood in the stadium, looking out at “The Swamp,” and imagined myself cheering from the stands all those years ago.

I was chosen to speak at the Online Student Commencement. The dean himself shook my hand and told me he was proud. I could hardly breathe. It was everything. It was more.

But when I got home… something shifted.

The high wore off. And underneath the pride was a pain I hadn’t expected. It was like I had walked through a door I was never allowed to open as a kid—and now that it had closed behind me, I could see everything I’d missed.

I didn’t get the college experience. I didn’t get the safe childhood. My parents weren’t there to hug me, to cry in the crowd and say, “We’re proud of you, baby.” Their seats were empty. Again.

And I felt that emptiness like a sucker punch to the chest.

I started questioning everything. “Why do I feel this way? Shouldn’t I just be happy?” I reminded myself how grateful I was for my kids, for my life now. I thought about how far I’d come. But no matter how many times I tried to talk myself out of it, the sadness stayed.

That’s when my therapist told me the truth I needed to hear.

She looked at me with kindness and said softly, “What you’re feeling is grief—the mourning of the life that was meant for you but slipped away.”

At first, I pushed back. I was 36—wasn’t I too old to grieve a childhood long gone? Shouldn’t I have moved on?

But then I realized… I had never given myself permission to feel the loss. I had survived, pushed forward, and stayed strong for everyone else. But I never once looked at what I left behind and said, “That mattered, too.”

So this time, I let myself fall apart.

I cried—the ugly kind. I replayed old memories. I got angry. I laughed at a few good moments that still somehow managed to shine through the darkness. I missed my parents, even though their choices hurt me. I mourned the girl who deserved better.

And it was the most freeing thing I’ve ever done.

Grief isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it creeps in years later—when you least expect it. When you’re wearing a cap and gown. When you’re smiling for a photo. When you’re holding the very thing you worked so hard for.

And that’s okay.

Grief doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful. It doesn’t mean you’re living in the past. It means your heart remembers. It means you’re human.

So if you’re feeling the weight of something lost—even decades later—please hear me: it’s not too late to feel it. It’s not too late to heal. Give yourself the gift of grieving what could’ve been, so you can fully live what is.

Life is breathtakingly beautiful—and unbearably hard—and often, those two truths exist side by side in a single moment.

And maybe that’s where the real healing begins.

Source: lovewhatmatters