A story of survival, silence, and the moment everything began to change.

I always felt as if I was on the outside looking in, that missing connection with others would be the catalyst to the dysregulated plotline I called my life. As many of you know, trauma is complicated, it’s messy, and there is always a mile-long list of mitigating and aggravating circumstances that we try to navigate and reason with. A quiet chaos that rages in your mind: Who do you tell? Who actually cares? What difference will it make? Memories are twisted and morphed, impacted by battles that your body remembers, but your mind chooses to forget, a hazy nightmare or an electric dream depending on the day. There is nothing simple about trauma. We have battled and consolidated the aftermath into tiny boxes to shove into the back of our minds, for what exactly? To save for a rainy day? To take to our graves, while ghosts of who we used to be and the shadows of those who hurt us lurk in the corners?

I think about what would have helped me or lessened the weight for the thirteen-year-old version of myself. The honest truth would have been knowing I wasn’t alone- to know that someone else had been in my shoes and that everything would be alright. That one choice, one mistake, didn’t have to define my entire life. I wonder if I would have listened.

My battles started early despite having a loving family and living in a good area. People always forget that monsters can hide anywhere- even in the pretty places where all the bad is hidden under the metaphorical Persian rugs. I was five when I had my first kiss, an older boy in the neighborhood would come play make-believe with my brothers and I. Hugs that lasted longer than they should have, touches in places I didn’t quite understand. Behind trees or left alone in the basement. But that’s all it took- the other kids stayed away from me, it’s interesting how children can just sense when something is different about another. I remember in kindergarten my teacher bullying me in front of the class for the clothes I wore or how my mom did my hair. I remember asking kids to play and being rejected. Throughout elementary and middle school, I was in and out of the guidance counselor’s office, bullied, alone, and confused. What was so wrong with me that I couldn’t have friends or keep the ones I made?

I started the process of becoming a chameleon; I would be whatever I needed to be to hold onto some semblance of normalcy. That never lasted, though, and the isolation through elementary and middle school left me with such a void of belonging; it was consuming. It made me angry. Desperate. People always leave. I would pour my heart and soul into people, being the best friend I could be, but I was never the one invited along to things, not the person receiving instant messages or emails. My phone and weekends are quiet. Existing into a nothingness and thinking about what it would feel like to be wanted or remembered. To be thought of by someone other than my parents. It was safe to say that books became my escape and my friends. I remember going to the library every other week and leaving with two or three books every time. Fictional characters never left.

I always had pretty thick skin, I never let anyone know I felt the way I did. I didn’t particularly mind being alone and never cared for sticking with the status quo. I had a habit of sticking up to bullies and I didn’t really care about the consequences of my social standing, nothing worse than a bully or a mean girl, and if I was going to be friendless I might as well stand up to the cruelty I had to deal with alone.

I wore an armor of sarcasm and dark humor along with a bravado oozing of false confidence. Come high school I was hoping for a fresh start but the truth is, the next four years would break me in ways there aren’t words for. The facade of who the world thinks I am so horribly cracked and disfigured, I wondered how no one put the pieces together themselves by now. The simple answer is no one cared enough to. I look back through pictures and I see it in my eyes, I see the drugs, I see the hurt, I see the cuts well hidden or disguised, I see the bruises on my arms, I see the mask I wore to hide everything that happened. I remember, and the anger comes back, how did no one see? How did I go so unnoticed with the secrets I was clutching onto? I was beautiful misery walking, the great pretender. Lies coated my lips and seeped out like honeyed poison. I kept everything so neatly packed away and hidden, you would never guess that I’ve lived through events stranger than fiction. No one knew or noticed because I didn’t let them. Despite everything my grades were perfect, I participated in clubs and after school activities, I was the perfect student and perfect daughter. No one saw through the mirage I created, the ugliness stayed inside, rotting, clawing at the edges of my mind and scratching my veins with every beat of my heart.

High School. I always tell people the only thing fictional about Euphoria are the outfits. Drugs. Sex. Dark corners to hide in. It’s more survival than anything. I was so desperate to belong somewhere, to belong to someone, that I landed in the lap of my first boyfriend. I don’t remember much, that box has stayed sealed tight, but that doesn’t stop the dreams from leaking small reminders. The cuts, the bruising grips, bites and broken skin. The quiet gentleness followed by apologies. Vindictive words and insults that would be my mantra. He would end up taking my virginity while bending me over the couch in my basement, “if you loved me you would” echoing with every tarnished act and malicious word. I did whatever he wanted me to, no matter how I felt, for once I belonged somewhere. I belonged to someone, bruises and self respect be damned.

By the end of freshman year I was pregnant. A hushed secret and after a few failed attempts of solving the issue himself it was decided that “we” would get an abortion after summer break, giving us enough time to get money for the procedure. I had extreme morning sickness and within thirty minutes of waking up my head would be best friends with the nearest trash can or toilet. It’s all a blur now but all I remember about that summer was going to my aunt’s place for a week with my brothers and having to pretend to be a kid. To have fun. To smile at bad jokes and act like I didn’t have a care in the world. The complicated cocktail of emotions dragging me down in waves. Thirteen and pregnant. The shame, the hopelessness, regret, anger, was all I could latch onto; and yet, they believed my smiles. Laughter that rang hollow was convincing enough. Tears crashed down in rivers with the water streaming from the shower. I was drowning and there were no life boats, only the reprieve in knowing it would all be over soon.

It wouldn’t be until September of sophomore year that I would walk into the clinic. The first month of school spent hiding in skin that didn’t feel like mine. Constantly late for first period due to my morning sickness and yet, teachers loved me, and I would get away with it. Participating and performing to the best of my ability, showing up like nothing else mattered. I lied sweetly and no one ever doubted a word. I told my mother we were going to D.C. for the day and I remember her smile and the kiss on the cheek, “have fun!”. It burned. Every touch since then has felt like acid on my skin. I was the liar- but the betrayal of going unseen, of no one knowing me well enough to see through my lies, that was what cut deepest. Knowing that if I had told my family what was happening that it would turn into managing their emotions. Turn into an interrogation of who and whys and what did I do to make him act the way he did. I was alone and maybe it was better that way.

He sat in the chair next to me in the waiting room. For comfort or to make sure I followed through, it didn’t matter. I was numb to the world, tears already shed past capacity, my brain no longer able to fully comprehend what was happening. White Chicks played on the tiny screen in the corner, eliciting hushed giggles from other women in the room. One by one they went in and eventually walked out, some visibly lightened by the heavy weight no longer burdening them, while others were mere ghosts in the shell. I already knew which I would be.

They called my name but I was frozen in my seat. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to do this. I was terrified. I remember the bruising grip on my thigh and the coldness in his eyes. There was no other choice. A piece of me dies here or all of me dies later. I follow to a back room where a woman sits behind a desk. I remember the boredom, the gum smacking, the long colorful finger nails clacking on the keyboard. “Are you here willingly and do you want to terminate your pregnancy?” I remember screaming no in my mind, the heartbreak threading through every part of me. “Yes”. She nodded and mentioned my age but I made up that my parents were religious and wouldn’t approve. Other questions asked and more lies responded. Layered and layered, more and more, lie after lie after lie. All I had to do was tell the truth and someone would help me. Or would they?

They herded me into a room with a metal chair with blue padding, white paper draped in preparation. Sharp tools and tongs lined on a table welcoming me to hell. I lay back and the coolness of the gel smearing on my belly transported me back to this sad reality. The room was quiet until the thrumming heartbeat filled the room. My baby. Frantic heartbeats. Strong heart beats. And I wouldn’t be able to save it. Grief, shock, anger. Unshed tears would blur the world but I couldn’t make a sound. I wouldn’t let them see. “You are thirteen weeks pregnant- we cannot administer the oral pills. You have to go through the surgical option. Do you have any more money? You don’t have enough for us to administer sedatives or anesthesia.” I remember shaking my head and just replying “ok”. I sat in that room with the cruel realization that I deserved to feel the pain. I deserved to know what it felt like to have life ripped out of me.

I was alone. I was afraid. I was mourning the loss of a life I wouldn’t get the chance to meet, to kiss, to hold in my arms, to protect.

The doctor was an older man, his hair white but his eyes were warm. His gentle aura reminding me of a grandfather doting on his grandchildren. He held my hand and he told me how sorry he was that I had to make this choice and the pain it may cause. But when he looked in my eyes he told me how brave I was. That it would be ok. I remember his face and the weight of his hand until today. But he lied. Nothing about what was going to happen would be ok.

The cold of the metal seemed to seep through the padding as I laid back and put my feet in the medieval stirrups. I slid down until he told me to stop and placed a drape over my knees blocking my vision of him between my legs. I was prepared for pain, you could say we were old acquaintances, but there are limited ways to articulate what it felt like. No anesthesia. No sedatives. There was no anticipating what was about to happen. Cold metal, the sound of the snipping. The scraping and pulling, the ripping and tearing. The smell of tangy iron filling the air like a poison cloud. The discarded parts were placed on a tray to be a displayed lesson or a taunt. Blood pooling in puddles beneath me. My vision would blur and darken, curses and needles and too many hands touching. I would wake up in a dark room with a heating pad across my lap and a small bandage at the crook in my arm. I was light headed, confused, the pain hitting me waves.

Apparently something went wrong. I should have died on that table but I suppose that would have been too easy. The nurses buzzed around me with papers to sign, I didn’t bother reading anything, I would just sign away my soul. Sign away liability. Sign away consent. I was a shell of a person at that point. I couldn’t hear what they were saying to me, it just sounded like buzzing and warbleing. It wouldn’t be until a few months later that I understood the severity.

A botched procedure. Transfusion required. CPR and resuscitation performed. Unlikely to have children due to severity of scar tissue and injury of uterine wall. All this happened in a matter of a few hours. That’s all it took.

I died that day and I spent a long time wishing I stayed dead.

There is something primal about the desire to have children. The desire to carry and hold life in your arms. To have someone to nurture and protect. Little hands to hold onto. Suddenly at thirteen I was told I would never have that. The choice to carry my own child stripped away from me. The hollowness that caused festered into hate, into an anger that would break something fundamental in me. But no one would know. I couldn’t let them see. So that anger clawed inside for years fueling an endless cycle of toxic choices and unhealthy relationships. I didn’t deserve better, and the good I had I always let go, they didn’t need to be friends with a monster. There was no escaping the endless void inside, no amount of pain, pleasure, or distractions kept it sustained for long. A purgatory of my own making.

It’s almost comical to think about. No one ever knew. Not the full extent of it anyways.

I didn’t find myself in the best of company and relationships were often difficult. I looked for safety and often found the opposite. Whether it was physical, financial, emotional, or psychological abuse, the same song and dance would replay. Maybe I didn’t deserve better but years of trauma were taking their toll and one can only pretend for so long.

By twenty I was in a car accident and motorcycle accident, both severe enough to result in concussions and spinal injuries, resulting in me dropping out of college where I had aspirations to go into criminal profiling. At this point I felt so out of control of my life. Choice after choice seemed to be taken away from me. I would bury myself in work and the gym, often only going home to lay in bed. Sleep brought dreams and dreams always meant the nightmares would follow.

Years would pass and blur together, heartache after heartache, hurting the same ways over and over, same story different man. The doctor who told me at thirteen I wouldn’t be able to have my own children ended up being wrong- or I miraculously healed over the years. Pregnancy and postpartum were difficult, I lived in my head and felt more alone than ever. My two girls are the reason I never fully melted into the couch. Like the rays of light that poke through after a summer storm, they were my tether and reminder of the life I wanted to live.

November 2024 I would be on that couch doom scrolling away. I would stop and admire a picture of a bookshelf. I hardly ever interacted with people on social media but something in me decided to appreciate the beautiful books. It had been years since I read anything and the whole culture of special editions, book boxes, and interactive authors were close to nonexistent when I was an avid reader. That was the day my friend and now fellow team member Kristin would invite me to her bookclub, changing my life forever. The first two books I read were The Stars are Dying and This is How You Win the Time War. I would read five more books by the end of that year. I inhaled these stories. Eventually, I began seeing myself in some of the characters, their pain was my own. Their struggles and relationships mirrored mine. I realized that my story didn’t have to be over. As they fought for themselves and found their way through their stories, I found myself cheering these characters on. It was time I started to do that for myself. I was worthy of fighting for the story I deserved. I wouldn’t let a hard first act define what happened for the remainder of what was still unwritten. That was the inception of the Paper Wings Project.

I don’t share my experiences lightly; it is not for sympathy, pity, or recognition. If one person reads about how I have felt or what I have been through and realizes they are not alone, I know I can make a difference. If I can recommend a story or give someone access to resources that allow them to journal or write through their pain to lead to their healing, I know that I made a difference. Reading has saved my life. It has rewired my brain in a way that has led me to make healthier choices and realize that I deserve better. I deserve happiness. I deserve to heal and find peace. I deserve to hold my daughters’ hands, to laugh with them, love them, and protect them. For the first time, I am starting to live for myself.

You are not alone and your story is yours to write.

-Isabella Romero
Founder, Paper Wings Project