Short Stories
Dandelion Days
As a child, I loved to wander in the woods behind our home. There were winding trails and a quiet pond tucked away beneath tall trees. When I walked there, I felt as though I were miles away from anyone else in the world. The peaceful stillness of nature was comforting to my soul, like a warm hug from the earth itself.
Most Saturday morning, my brother and I would jump out of bed as soon as the sun came up, eager to start another adventure. Our imaginations could take us anywhere—from Cowboy and Indian days, wild jungles, or hidden treasure islands—all without leaving our backyard.
Some days we’d stretch out in the green grass, searching for four-leaf clovers that we were sure would bring us good luck and picking dandelions to hold under each other’s chin to see who had the most butter (LOL, whatever - that meant.) Other times, we just laid there staring up at the sky, watching fluffy clouds drift by. We’d point and laugh, finding ones that looked like animals or funny shapes. Before long, the clouds would change and our discoveries would disappear just as quickly as we had noticed them.
Most days, we spent hours riding our bikes around the yard—speeding around the house, racing down by the barn, or pedaling out to the pasture near the woods. Out in that pasture stood a massive old tree with thick, strong branches, much to big to climb. But another tree not too far from this one was just right for climbing. We climbed it as often as we could. Perched up high where we could see the whole yard below. Up there, we played make-believe, shared secrets, and talked about everything that crossed our young minds.
Of course, not every adventure kept us out of trouble. One day, we must have done something truly awful—though I can’t remember what it was now—because Mama came after us with a belt or maybe a switch. (I can’t quite recall which, just that it meant business.) We took off running as fast as our little legs could carry us, laughing and screaming as she chased us all the way out back and down into the pasture.
My brother, always looking out for me, helped me up the tree first. He yelled, “Climb faster!” while pushing at me to hurry. I think he had already caught a sting or two from the belt because he was extra motivated to climb faster. We climbed higher and higher until Mama couldn’t reach us anymore. From our safe perch, we watched her stand below, catching her breath.
“You have to come down at some point!” she warned, shaking the belt at us. But then she turned and stomped back toward the house, no doubt needing a break from our mischief.
My brother and I exchanged a look and nodded in perfect agreement: she would forget all about being mad once she calmed down. So, we stayed up in that tree for the longest time—talking, giggling, and watching the world from above—until we were absolutely sure the danger had passed.
Sure enough, by suppertime, Mama called us in as if nothing had ever happened. And forget she did. We slid into our chairs with straight faces, trying not to smile too big at the success of our daring escape.
Those days were simple, wild, and full of wonder—the kind of childhood magic that sticks with you forever.
Growing Up in Chaos
When I look back on my childhood, I remember being a shy, quiet little girl who often felt invisible. I was painfully thin and never seemed to fit in with the other children at school. Classmates teased me about my size and the clothes I wore. Their words hurt more than I ever let anyone know. I didn't know how to defend myself, and I certainly didn't have the confidence to speak up. Instead, I learned to stay quiet and hope the attention would move on to someone else.
I often wondered why I felt so different from everyone around me. While other children seemed carefree, I carried worries that no child should have to carry. School wasn't a place where I felt accepted, and home wasn't always a place where I felt safe.
Life inside our house was unpredictable.
My parents loved us in the ways they knew how, but they were carrying burdens of their own that often spilled over into our home. My father struggled with alcoholism, and my mother lived with bipolar disorder. At the time, I didn't understand either one of those illnesses. I only knew that our home could change in an instant.
Some days there was laughter.
Other days there was shouting.
There were arguments that echoed through the house, voices raised in anger, doors slammed, and sometimes objects thrown across the room. My brothers and I never knew what kind of evening awaited us when we walked through the front door. We became experts at reading facial expressions and listening to the tone of a voice. We could sense tension before a single word was spoken.
It felt as though my mother's mood determined how the entire day would unfold. When she was having a difficult day, everyone else adjusted their behavior in hopes of avoiding another argument. We learned to walk on eggshells, speaking softly, staying out of the way, and trying not to become the reason another conflict began.
Children aren't meant to carry that kind of responsibility, but many do.
Because our home life was so unstable, we rarely invited friends over. Looking back, I realize how isolated we were. I thought that was simply how every family lived because it was all I had ever known.
When the world around me became too loud, I quietly disappeared into one that I could create.
My imagination became my refuge.
I could spend hours pretending, dreaming, and imagining a different life. Sometimes I imagined I lived in a peaceful little cottage surrounded by flowers. Other times I imagined adventures in faraway places where no one argued and everyone felt loved.
Drawing and coloring became my safe place.
With every crayon and colored marker, I could create a world that made sense. On those pages, I had control over the colors, the scenery, and the ending. If life felt broken around me, I could create something beautiful with my own hands.
Art became more than a hobby.
It became healing.
As an adult, I understand much more than I did as a child. I know now that addiction and mental illness affect entire families, not just the person living with them. I also understand that my parents carried hurts and struggles I couldn't see through the eyes of a little girl. Understanding their pain doesn't erase my own, but it has helped me find compassion where there was once confusion.
The little girl who escaped into drawings and daydreams was simply trying to survive the only way she knew how.
God never forgot that little girl.
Even during the loudest arguments and the loneliest nights, He was quietly watching over me. Though I couldn't always feel His presence then, I can see His fingerprints all over my story now. He carried me through seasons that could have broken me. He planted seeds of hope in a heart that often felt afraid.
Today, when I look back, I don't see only chaos.
I also see God's faithfulness.
He took a frightened little girl and slowly taught her that her worth was never determined by cruel words, unstable circumstances, or the home she grew up in. Her identity was always found in Him.
If you are reading these words and your childhood looked anything like mine, I want you to know something.
Your story does not end where your pain began.
God is able to write a beautiful ending from even the most broken beginnings.