I Never Built a Snowman

What Happens When Survival Ends and Identity Begins?

I don’t think I ever built a snowman.

I don’t have a memory of it, at least. Maybe snowball fights with the neighborhood kids…but a real snowman? Big and tall. One that takes hours to build. Frozen hands, packing snow until your fingers ache. The careful placement of eyes, a carrot nose, a scarf. Maybe even a hat.

Yesterday, I realized I don’t even know where to start.

My husband laughed softly and let me do my thing as I built a miniature one in our backyard, the snow too fluffy to pack properly. With all the love in his heart, he said to our toddler, “Mommy has never built a snowman, so she’s finding her own way to do it. I don’t think Mommy had much playtime in her childhood.”

And both of them stood there quietly, watching me, proudly build my tiny snowman.

And this year, I’ll finally get the chance to build a proper one with my little one. To make joy of the snow I never got to cherish. Becoming a mother has a way of reintroducing you to the parts of yourself you never got to meet.

I’m feeling everything these days.The pain of what I never did. The things I never got to do. The childhood I never had. The older my son gets, the more he mirrors back the things I missed, not in a way that breeds regret or resentment. I truly haven’t thought about these things in years. But now they’re bubbling to the surface.

My heart aches. Burns.

I don’t feel sad for myself, but I’ve been crying the tears little me never got to shed. I was quiet. I kept to myself. I lost myself in stories written by the authors I wished I could be. Loneliness birthed the writer in me. Journals filled with lyrics of pain before I even knew what poetry was. Short, unfinished stories of a life I desired. Then, in my teenage years, journals upon journals of thoughts, emotions, memories. As if I was documenting what it felt like to be alive so I wouldn’t forget it. Because those moments were all I had.

My chronic loneliness bothered me once. Now, the older I get, the more accepting I am of it. Although I still long for community.

I don’t have parents I can call for advice. I can’t vent to them. I’ve never felt comfortable doing so. They are strangers to me, even now. Even after 27 years of knowing them, I never really knew them. It’s a strange feeling to not know who your parents are. To not know what their life was like before you. What moves them. What makes them cry. How they see the world. What their favorite movies are.

It feels strange to be a stranger to the people who raised you.

I used to feel like an orphan, thrown into the world. Someone who escaped the system and worked just to survive. From the moment I was legally allowed to work, I did. At 17, it felt like my parents were already dead. I struggled to eat. To live. To keep a roof over my head. I struggled to find the motivation to wake up and go to school and most days, I didn’t. I worked under the table. I worked two jobs most seasons. I found myself in horrific situations, all in the name of survival.

And now? This is the most peaceful my life has ever been. Nothing is going on. And the boredom seeps in alongside thought. With my overthinking habit, this stillness has become overdrive. I start searching for what’s wrong with my reality. I become hyper-aware. Overly emotional. I stay quiet because I know these parts of myself too well…but the silence is deafening. All the things I forgot. All the tears I never shed. All the pieces of me I never stopped to thank or admire as I grew.

I don’t think my brain has ever known how not to work overtime. How not to search for danger. I don’t think it knew how to relax.

Even my dreams have changed. They’re slower now, soft, precise. No more nightmares. No more chaos. Everywhere I look, there is peace. And now my mind is picking apart everything I haven’t done. Everywhere I haven’t been. Sometimes I feel dissociated from my life, as if it isn’t mine. As if all the work I did, the depths I climbed to awaken my soul, to restart the beating of my heart- somehow wasn’t earned. An old story the teenager in me used to believe anytime I tasted even a sliver of joy.

I pitied even the best parts of myself then. I watered them down. I called my talents luck. I shrunk myself so I wouldn’t take up too much space.

And now- I’m stepping into myself, and it’s loud.

I understand my fear of my own truth now. She takes up space. Her voice echoes. Her words carry into other people’s thoughts. She roars when she feels. My fear of being seen was never about visibility- it was about judgment. About the what ifs. About being “too much.”

So, I stepped aside. I let others go before me. I handed over opportunities as if they weren’t meant for me. The next person in line got the lottery- and I called it fate.

Back to square one.

But it’s starting to fade.

I believe in myself more than I believe my fear now. My emotions are growing louder, but they’re clearer. More intentional. More aligned with who I truly am.

And maybe that was the biggest fear of all-the fear of finally discovering myself, only to realize I never truly knew her.

Layer by layer, I’m shedding the versions of me I adopted just to breathe.

And for the first time, I’m learning how to stay. And for the first time, I’m meeting her in her fullness. The child, the teenager, and the adult.

No snowman required. Staying is enough.

♥ Kayla