Living From A Distance

I was 13 In the year 1988; music filled the airwaves with powerful emotion. Two songs in particular stood out—From a Distance by Bette Midler and Emotions by Mariah Carey. While Emotions captured intensity and passion, From a Distance felt like it was quietly describing my life. That year, I wasn’t just listening to the song—I was living it.

I was in seventh grade, living at home with my mother, my sister, and my mom’s second husband, who had adopted my sister and me when I was eight. From the outside, it might have looked like a family that was functioning, but inside our home, life was unpredictable and emotionally draining. My biological father lived in Tennessee, where I was born, but he felt impossibly far away. I had not seen or heard from him since I was eight years old. His absence became a quiet ache—something I learned to carry rather than question.

My stepfather struggled with serious mental illness and was frequently in and out of a mental health facility. When he was home, the environment was tense and chaotic, filled with arguments and emotional instability. I learned early how to stay quiet and retreat inward. When he wasn’t home, the house felt calmer—almost peaceful—with just my mom, my sister, and me. Still, even during those moments, I never fully felt at ease. Emotional distance had already become my way of surviving.

At thirteen, that distance extended into my closest relationships. I remember one night during a sleepover with friends, sitting on the top bunk of my bed, when my sister came into the room and slapped me, angry over something I didn’t understand. In that moment, I felt how disconnected we were. At the time, all I felt was hurt. Only later did I understand that she was struggling too, fighting her own unseen battles.

That same year, another moment changed me in ways I wouldn’t fully understand until much later. My best friend and I had gone to youth group at church one evening and left with older boys—high school age. What followed is something I didn’t have the words for back then. I remember my shirt being pulled up, his hands on my body, and the fear that rushed through me as I forced him away. When he tried again, my best friend stepped in and demanded that we be taken back to the church. That intervention stopped what could have gone further, but the damage had already begun.

At thirteen, I didn’t understand what had happened to me. I buried it somewhere deep inside myself and kept going. It wasn’t until about a year and a half ago that the memory resurfaced with full clarity. Since then, I have been trying to process it while navigating my own struggles with depression and anxiety. The distance I once lived with had returned—not because I wanted it to, but because it had always been how I survived trauma before I knew it had a name.

That Christmas, we traveled to Tennessee to visit my grandparents, whom we had not seen since I was eight. While there, we also saw my father with his new family. He promised to be part of our lives, to stay connected, to build a relationship with us. I wanted that more than I could explain. But once again, nothing followed. No calls. No visits. No effort. The distance returned, heavy and familiar, reinforcing the pattern I had already learned—people could make promises and still disappear.

Looking back now, I understand why From a Distance resonated so deeply with me. Distance was not just emotional—it was protective. It allowed me to endure absence, instability, betrayal, and trauma at an age when I should have felt safe. I wasn’t disconnected because I didn’t care; I was disconnected because caring too deeply hurt too much.

The year 1988 remains vivid in my memory not just because of the music, but because it marked the beginning of a lifelong struggle to reconnect with myself. Healing has not been linear, and I am still learning how to live fully present rather than from a distance. But telling this story—acknowledging what I survived instead of burying it—feels like a step toward reclaiming my voice, my truth, and myself.