The Weight of Secrets: Finding Freedom in the Truth

Series Introduction:Some stories are heavy to tell because they were heavy to live.The Weight of Secrets is a journey through memories that were buried deep—hidden under fear, shame, and silence.This isn’t just about what was taken; it’s about what survived.It’s about finding freedom in truth, even when the truth is hard to speak.It’s about believing that even broken places can be made whole again.

This is my story.

by Scars of Grace – HeSawMeDifferent.com

Part 1

I often drift back to a picture in my mind—me and my siblings, standing in what looked like a bedroom with a pink canopy and a white bed. The walls were still drywall, unfinished, waiting to be painted. That room holds more than just a snapshot in time; it holds the last normal memory I have before everything changed.

Back then, my mother was still someone I thought I knew. But slowly, she became someone else.

I remember the day her father died. We were living in the basement of my grandparents’ house. That morning, I’ll never forget her bolting up the stairs, the echo of yelling and crying trailing behind. After that, the moves began. From house to house, state to state—always starting over. As a child, I didn’t understand. As an adult, I believe now that she was running—from responsibility, from grief, from herself.

But we weren’t running alone. My grandmother, aunts, uncles, and cousins moved too. We were like a family mob, thick as thieves and tangled in dysfunction. With that closeness came secrets—ugly ones.

My uncle Clyde began singling out his children. Then it spread to whoever came over to hang out for family events or spent the night. I don’t remember what was said to keep me silent, but I kept it buried—so deep I thought it was gone. But it wasn’t. I can still see that first night like it was yesterday, and all the times we kids were playing hide and go seek and he'd pull me in the closet to "hide together."

Over time, I wondered if uncle Clyde shared stories—comparing notes about “favorites.” Because then, the Uncle Rick started. The memories they left behind? They don’t erase. We might tell ourselves they do, but they don’t.

Eventually, a phone call came from my aunt. She told my mother what Uncle Clyde had been accused of—and my name was mentioned. I didn’t have the choice to stay silent anymore. I told the truth. And while my mother was upset, she said there was no need to pursue anything—his own kids had already come forward. That was “enough.” It was never brought up again.

But there was more I didn’t say. Another uncle. Another bed. I was “the favorite” again, even as I lay there between him and my aunt. She slept next to us—maybe truly asleep, maybe just keeping her eyes shut. I’ll never know.

I had this neighbor growing up, too—a high school student who loved to "teach" me what not to let boys or guys do to me. But then he would call me names and be verbally cruel, cutting me down with every word. I couldn’t wait for him to move away. He was so much older than I was, and like so many things back then, I never told that secret either.

That picture—that room with the pink canopy—was the last time life still felt untouched. It’s not where it started. It’s simply where the memories stop feeling safe.

Part two coming soon.