This writing comes after my cousin’s recent 14th birthday. She was surrounded with family that loved her, and it made me think of how different 14 was for me. I guess I’ve never really grieved the childhood that was stolen from me.

Fourteen is the age I was removed from my home by social services because I turned in my abuser (my stepdad). To be clear, he was the only dad I had known since my biological father died when I was just 14 months old. I thought I was so mature at 14, and I was…in comparison to other kids my age.

I was just 14 when I went to social services to tell them what had been happening to me since I was just 7 years old. I was terrified, but I was finally taken seriously! This was unheard of in 1977 and was one of the scariest moments of my life. The questions they asked were very personal and very hard! The social worker never once shamed me or blamed me for any of it. She was 100 percent on my side, but was also willing to give me the hard truths that I had to face.

Fourteen when they came to our house and gave my mom our options. She could leave him — with me and my brothers OR she could send me to live with a relative OR there would be foster care. I had the option to go to court, and I was willing. But, after the social worker gave me the hard truth that I could lose and end up back in that situation and it would be worse. I chose not to go to court. My mother sent me to live with my aunt (her sister) that lived over two hours from my home.
It was not ideal by any means but better than where I came from.

I could sleep a whole night without worrying if I would be molested — the first time since I was seven.

Fourteen when I had to leave my three brothers behind without a goodbye. They wouldn’t be told why.

14 when I had to start a whole new life.

Fourteen when I took a leap of faith. Because anything could be better than what I was leaving behind.

Fourteen when I would make new friends — some still with me to this day.