A Heart Still Reaching

I may spend the length of my days mourning the childhood that was stolen from me, the tenderness that never had a chance to take root. That grief may never loosen its hold, may follow me like a shadow across every season of my life. Yet alongside that mourning lives another ache… an unrelenting yearning to draw nearer to the family I gathered along the way. For as long as I breathe, I will long for them, not as a substitute for what I lost, but as proof that even broken beginnings can still reach toward love.

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I came into Charlotte, Miranda, Tamara, and Tyson’s lives when I was just seventeen years old.

I felt as if I had won the lottery, and finally knew what it felt like to fly, I was in a home that wanted me, and I was finally the bigger sibling, and the first few weeks were magical to me, and I never said that when I should have.

And although it felt magical, I came into that home as a vulnerable mess… “shy”… awkward, bruised by the world, and carrying a lifetime of unspoken confusion. From the very beginning, I wanted to be close to them, desperately so. But I could not yet understand why I struggled so deeply in their presence, why I would get mad at random moments, why irritations flared inside me without reason. I didn’t know then that I was overstimulated, that my mind was processing the world differently, that my emotions were often larger than my capacity to contain them.

I wanted closeness, but my body and mind were wired to resist it, and the trauma indulged that resistance… and that resistance sabotaged the beginnings of what I so deeply hoped could be a connection.

I have carried that tension with me for nearly twelve years (longer in fact, if you consider all the places and situations I dealt with before ending up in that home 17 years before that and on)... The fact that I was allowed into their lives at all, that they tolerated me (as much as they could produce from within themselves) as I stumbled through that difficult period, is something I have never taken for granted. At least not anymore …

Tamara and Tyson… my mom and dad in every sense that matters… gave me something no one else in my life ever did… the possibility of belonging. Charlotte and Miranda… my sisters, though not by blood.. gave me a model for love and safety I had never known before.

From the start, I admired them, and I longed for a closeness I wasn’t yet capable of sustaining. It has always hurt me, at times profoundly, to feel the distance between us, even when it was not intentional, even when it was simply the natural effect of my own limitations at seventeen. (And beyond.)

For years, I didn’t fully know myself. I didn’t know how to navigate the chaos raging inside me… the combination of trauma, developmental differences, and the chaotic upbringing that left me fragmented, aching, and silent in ways that were invisible to most.

From childhood to my late 20s I lacked the language for my inner world, the awareness to describe what I felt or why I reacted in ways that might seem confusing or distant. And yet, even then, I tried. Every laugh I offered, every hug I gave, every question I asked to learn about them, every photo I cherished or captured… it was all energy I gave willingly, even if I couldn’t always show it as perfectly as I wanted. That energy was the sum of my heart, my mind, my effort… everything I could offer at the time. I do not give energy lightly… when I give, it is total, it is real, and it is sacred.

And now, after years of reflection, therapy, and deep self-work, I am beginning to see myself with clarity. I understand the threads that have woven together to make me who I am… undiagnosed autism, trauma, loss, misunderstanding, resilience, and hope.

I understand why I grew slower than those around me, why the milestones of emotional connection, self-awareness, and love took me longer to reach. It is not a failing… it is a journey shaped by survival. I know that the life I led before age twenty-eight, the life I struggled through in silence and fear, gave me the fortitude to arrive at a place where I can finally offer real, sustained effort.

It has taken me until now to realize that I can give more… to finally and truly give, consistently and thoughtfully, without being pulled under by my past, my pain, or my overwhelm. I am finally in a place where I can love them on their terms, while still honoring my boundaries and my own energy. I do not want to bombard, love-bomb, or suffocate them… that is in fact, the total opposite of what I’ve already done, yet I yearn to do more … I simply want to show up. I want to reserve a day each week, just one day, to be present with them, to connect, to grow, to hold space for the people I have always loved. That is how much they matter to me. That is how central they are in my life. Though it’s something that’s quite difficult to express, plan, maintain, have us all cherish. And not just me.

But the truth is, I feel blocked from doing this, even as I am ready. I see them, and yet, I cannot fully reach them. I feel my heart unravel in response to the reality that one of them does not want a relationship with me. At least not a full one where there is mutual maintenance. She’ll tolerate my presence at family dinners, and yet, maintains a boundary I cannot cross? I cannot help but feel torn up, deeply heartbroken, and highly depressed when I hold that truth in my hands. Because I have fought my entire life to get to this point… to understand myself, to heal, to find a way to offer love and presence in a stable, safe way… to finally be ready to be an older sister that they actively want to be around, to reach out to, to look to for advice, to feel close to …and now it feels as though the moment (whatever moment, there could have been for it)

is passed. As though I finally ran the marathon barefoot and bleeding, only to reach the finish line and find it empty.

I do not take any of this entitlement lightly. I know I am not owed a relationship with Miranda or Charlotte, with Tamara or even Tyson. Yet I need them to understand the journey I took to even arrive at a place capable of that closeness. I grew up in a family that bred chaos, neglect, and misunderstanding. They know ABOUT it but do not KNOW it. I was shuffled through foster homes, shuffled away from potential adoption, made to fend for myself in ways that children should never have to. I was invisible, and I learned to mask, to silence myself in vulnerable moments, to hide, to survive. Often time, doing these acts of betrayal towards myself, led to a life of episodes, meltdowns, breakdowns … I did not have the luxury of a childhood of being cherished or understood as Miranda and Charlotte were. Their childhoods allowed them to grow, to feel safety, to understand themselves with support. I had to fight every day to discover even the fragments of my truth. And I have done so… painfully, slowly, and courageously.

That is why it feels like such a profound loss, not just a disappointment, when distance exists between us. It is not about blame or resentment… it is about love. I have always wanted to be close to them. Every step back I have taken in the past was never from disinterest. I simply lacked the tools, the understanding, and the clarity to connect as I now can. I assumed, unfairly, that over time they would carry most of the effort. It was never their responsibility to compensate for my early struggles, but that assumption reveals just how young and unformed I truly was. I was still a child in many ways, even as a seventeen-year-old )even in my 20s) trying to navigate being part of their lives.

And through all of this, my love has never wavered. My desire for connection has never diminished. Every photograph I have taken, every smile, every hug, every effort to engage… these were all my ways of saying…

you matter.

You are precious.

You are family.

You too, have always been my sisters and always will be.

You are my home.

Even if I failed to express it perfectly, even if my methods were flawed, the intention has always been there. And now, I am able to offer more. I am able to be steady, thoughtful, attentive, and present. I am able to hold the space for them to exist as themselves while still expressing the depth of my care and devotion.

I want them to know that my love is not superficial or casual. It is not fleeting. It is relentless in its quiet persistence. It is a force that has survived years of misunderstanding, rejection, distance, and my own internal battles. It is a love shaped by trauma, yes, but also by resilience, patience, and a fierce commitment to connection. I have chosen them, repeatedly, in my mind and in my heart, for more than a decade.

They are my family not just because of circumstance, but because of choice, loyalty, and the deep respect I hold for them.

And I want them to understand that my effort is not performative. It is real, measurable, lived. Every action I take, every seemingly random and unnecessary text to them, every moment I spend attempting to bridge the gaps, every conversation I carefully navigate, every minute I carve out of my life to dedicate to them… it is all a reflection of the value I place on these relationships. I am willing to invest time, patience, and love, even when it is challenging. Even when it requires vulnerability, even when it requires exposing the rawest parts of my heart, I am willing to do it. I am willing to be brave, again and again, because they are worth it.

I want her, specifically, to understand this. I want her to know that I am not asking for perfection or an immediate closeness. I am not asking for a replacement of space she has chosen for herself. I am asking for permission to be part of her life in a deeper, more authentic way… a way that honors both of our realities. I want her to see that this is not a fleeting desire… it is the culmination of a lifetime of longing, missteps, and gradual self-discovery. It is the proof of survival, of growth, of persistence, of love that refuses to let go.

I am aware of how my early presence in their lives might have seemed chaotic, or distant, or inconsistent. I understand the nine months of early adjustments as my foster girl presence lingered heavy during and after… the moments where I isolated, the times I allowed frustration to win, the days I could not articulate what I needed or why I felt so triggered. Why it seemed like I went back-and-forth on ideas and feelings … I was struggling to survive, while trying, imperfectly, to love them. I now recognize that every question, every smile, every hug I offered at that time was a normal low effort thing to them yet a maximum effort given my capacity. And now, having grown, having healed, having found a way to understand and love myself, I can offer far more. I can offer steadiness, joy, and clarity alongside care.

Tamara, Charlotte, Miranda, and Tyson have been my anchors, my chosen family, my safe harbor in a lifetime of so many unnatural and natural storms. My attachment to them has always been profound, perhaps deeper than they could see or comprehend. I have clung to them with a desperation born from years of instability, neglect, and trauma. And that desire has not diminished… it has intensified as I have matured, as I have learned to understand myself, as I have learned to wield my heart with care instead of fear.

I want these words to serve as a testament… this is who I am, this is my journey, this is my love. I want her to understand, truly understand, the depth of what I feel. I want all of them to see that I am not a stranger or an intruder in their lives. And even still, they may feel feelings of the sort even in tiny amounts … but no, I am someone who has chosen them, fought for them, cherished them, and grown alongside them, even when the growth was silent and hidden. I want them to know that I am capable of giving more, now, than I ever could before, and that I am willing to do so with patience, respect, and care.

I do not know if understanding me will change anything. I do not know if my words, my truths, or my feelings will alter the landscape of our connection. But I am willing to try. I am willing to bleed, to speak, to open myself as fully as I can, because love is not measured by certainty of outcome but by the courage to persist, to offer, to reach, and to show up.

I want to be present in their lives in ways that are meaningful, sustainable, and joyful. I want to create moments of closeness, of understanding, of shared laughter and warmth. I want to show them, every week, that they are seen, valued, loved, and cherished. I want them to know that my love is deliberate, measured, thoughtful, and endless.

I want them to understand that my commitment is not about possession or control, but about presence, care, and the refusal to let fear dictate my capacity to love.

I am aware of how my life experiences have shaped my pace. I have grown slower, yes, because my journey has been filled with complexities that demanded resilience, introspection, and careful navigation.

I have matured in thought, energy, and emotional capacity at a different rate, a rate shaped by trauma, neurodivergence, and survival. And yet, in this slower growth, I have discovered richness, depth, creativity, and courage that I could not have otherwise known. I am not less for my journey… I am more. And I want to share that fullness with them.

Even after twelve years, even after the moments of distance, even with the misunderstandings and missed opportunities, I have never stopped wanting them in my life. I have never stopped loving them. I have never stopped envisioning a future where our bonds are strong, where we can share joy, vulnerability, understanding, and authenticity. That vision has carried me through some of the darkest periods of my life, and it carries me still.

These words of mine are my attempt to articulate what has lived inside me, silently, for so long. It is my offering, my bridge, my heart extended in words. It is raw, honest, and unfiltered. It is my truth. I want Miranda, Charlotte, Tamara, and Tyson to know that I am ready. Ready to invest in them. Ready to love. Ready to show up not as a child struggling to survive, but as an adult capable of care, presence, and consistency. Ready to honor the family we have built together, chosen together, and cherished together, despite everything.

I hope they can see me in these words. I hope they can feel the sincerity, the history, and the love embedded in every line. I hope they can understand the magnitude of my desire to be close, to repair distance, and to nurture connection. I hope they can know that this is not a passing feeling, but a deep, persistent truth… that they are my family, my anchors, my heart, my chosen home.

I want to dedicate my life to this connection, even in small ways. I want to give space, attention, care, and consistency. I want them to know that every effort I make, every smile I share, every hug, every photograph cherished, every conversation held with intention, is a reflection of the love and dedication I carry for them.

This is my heart, fully extended, my energy, fully given, my will, fully committed.

And I hope that one day, they can meet me there, and we can build a closeness that honors all we have shared, all we have survived, and all we hope to experience together.

Because despite the struggles, despite the distance, despite the moments of misunderstanding, my love for them has always been unwavering. It has survived neglect, trauma, confusion, and silence. It has persisted through every obstacle. And now, finally, I can show it in its fullest, clearest, and most intentional form. This is my truth. This is my effort. This is my heart, still reaching.

Always reaching.

I just want it to be known… deeply known, not just skimmed across the surface but felt in the bone… that when I first came into their lives, we were kids. All of us. Different ages, different stages, but still kids nonetheless. And what I didn’t realize then, what I am only beginning to understand now, is that my mind, my heart, my capacity to grow and connect, was maturing at a pace much slower than theirs.

While they were learning their own natural rhythm of love, safety, and selfhood, I was still stumbling through shadows, still trying to find language for feelings that consumed me, still trying to recognize myself in the fragments left behind by trauma and survival.

We were kids, and I was broken in ways I couldn’t articulate. Slow in ways that made me ashamed. Aching in ways I hid. And yet I was still reaching, still hoping, still wanting them in a way I could not fully express. That is what I want honored now. That truth matters, because it reframes the story, or any story they may have in their own heads of my efforts, existence and pain…. I wasn’t absent out of disinterest. I wasn’t cold out of a lack of love. I wasn’t disconnected because I didn’t care. I was simply moving at a different pace… stumbling forward with every ounce of energy I had to give. And while to them it may have looked like so little, to me it was everything.

I have learned something about growth… it does not always move in sync. Some bloom quickly, fully, beautifully, while others unfurl slowly, haltingly, sometimes painfully.

Charlotte and Miranda grew (and are growing) into themselves with their natural rhythm of children who had the soil, the light, and the safety to do so.

I grew too… but in fits and starts, with long pauses, without solid roots and often no water… with jagged edges, with stretches of silence. And though the pace was slower, though the path was far more broken, I was still growing. I still am.

And I believe, in some ways, we are still kids even now. Because no one ever matures one hundred percent. No one ever silences the child inside them entirely, nor should they.

Life is a balancing act, a dance between the child within and the adult we wear as armor.

Sometimes the child shines through, reminding us of wonder, vulnerability, and tenderness. Sometimes the adult takes the lead, holding boundaries, building stability, carrying responsibility. But neither part can be exiled, neither should be abandoned.

The child in me has always been alive. Tender. Yearning. Fragile. She has always reached for them… for her sisters, her home, her family. Even when I was awkward, even when I was angry or withdrawn, even when overstimulation made me burn to the core with rage I didn’t understand, it was always the child in me reaching out beneath the surface.

To push aside the relationship we had in those early years, rocky and uneven as it was, feels too sudden… severely sudden. Like cutting off a vine that was still growing toward the light.

Because those beginnings mattered.

They were not perfect, but they were real.

They were marked by my clumsy reaching, my flawed attempts, my incomplete expressions of love, but they mattered.

To dismiss them as though they did not count, as though they were nothing, only widens the distance I never wanted in the first place. It sabotages what I have been working toward with my whole heart the last decade… a closeness, a sisterhood, a bond that is sacred to me.

The truth is, I have always longed for them. Even when I seemed distant. Even when I faltered. Even when I failed. The longing has never left me. And it still lives in me now, just as fierce, just as vulnerable, just as aching and alive as it did when I was seventeen.

I know they may not see it that way. To them, maybe, I drifted. Maybe I disappeared. Maybe I did not invest enough. And in their eyes, perhaps that is true. But I want it to be understood that what looked like drifting was, to me, survival. What looked like absence was, to me, effort at its maximum. What looked like indifference was, in fact, love wrapped in silence and struggle. I was figuring myself out so I could be myself for those I love.

And now, I am ready to give more. To be steady. To show up without flinching. To choose them deliberately and consistently, not just with the scraps of energy I had left but with the fullness I have worked so long to cultivate. I want them to know that this isn’t about obligation or guilt. It’s about love. It’s about the undeniable pull of family, the sacredness of belonging, the truth of my heart that has carried their names and their faces with me every day for twelve years.

I do not want to erase the past. I only want it honored for what it was… a beginning, imperfect but real, fragile but meaningful. I want them to see that even my smallest gestures were, in truth, the entirety of what I had to give. That my reaching, however incomplete, was genuine. That my love, however quiet, was constant.

And now, standing here, I am still reaching. Still willing. Achingly, vulnerably willing to fight for the bond I believe in, to hope for the closeness I long for, to believe in the sisterhood I never stopped yearning for. Because despite everything… despite the silence, the distance, the misunderstandings… I love them. I have always loved them. And I am still here, still reaching, still carrying that love like a lantern against the dark I’m constantly left in… whether it be by my own hand or others.

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https://on.soundcloud.com/ZqNDiB2K0mCRxfnYZm

My song, “Felt in the Bone (3 Sisters)” is my raw, vulnerable reflection on growing up fractured and learning to connect slowly, painfully, and intentionally. It tells the story of my chosen family… Tamara, Tyson, Charlotte, and Miranda… and the love, longing, and heartbreak that comes from being misunderstood despite my deepest efforts to reach. The song captures the tension between absence and intention, shadow and light, brokenness and resilience. Every line is a declaration that… even when I moved slowly, even when I stumbled, my care was never absent, my love never lacking, and my heart never stopped reaching. This is my story, felt in the bone.

LYRICS:

Felt in the Bone (3 Sisters)

Verse 1:

I just want it to be known,

deeply known, felt in the bone.

When I first stepped into their lives,

we were kids, while I was trying to survive.

Myself and my past, let the wholeness last,

Different ages, different stages,

hearts still soft, unturned pages.

Fragile voices and searching eyes,

still unsure beneath the skies.

Pre-Chorus:

But my heart was moving slow,

my roots had nowhere safe to grow.

While they found their rhythm, love, and home,

I was lost, yet not alone.

Chorus:

So let it be known, let it be clear,

silence was never the absence of care.

Distance was not a closing door,

I was reaching, aching for more.

Slower, broken, out of time,

but still their love was what I climbed.

So let it be known,

felt in the bone.

Verse 2:

I was stumbling through the dark,

shadows heavy on my heart.

Language dissolved before it came,

I was a child buried deep in shame.

Trying to feel with calloused skin,

holding the fragments deep within.

Neglected, shattered, left behind,

still I reached with what I’d find.

Pre-Chorus:

Awkward hands that mistook and shook,

but I still gave all it took.

They bloomed quickly in the light,

I pressed upward through the night.

Chorus:

So let it be known, let it be clear,

silence was never the absence of care.

Distance was not a closing door,

I was reaching, aching for more.

Slower, broken, out of time,

but still their love was what I climbed.

So let it be known,

felt in the bone.

Bridge:

Not a lack of love,

not a turning away,

just a slower bloom

in a cracked-stone clay.

And I’m still here,

still reaching the same—

growing through sorrow,

calling their name.

Final Chorus:

So let it be known, let it be clear,

silence was never the absence of care…

Slower, broken, still I came,

reaching for love all the same.

So let it be known,

deeply known…

felt in the bone.