Looking back to move forward

This week I went to the Center for Youth Wellness's ACEs Conference in San Francisco. It was really special to be able to attend this event because of the personal impact ACEs science has had on me. It changed the way I viewed myself and my life, and has also motivated my interest in public health and prevention.

If you are not familiar with ACEs, it stands for Adverse Childhood Experiences. A groundbreaking study from Kaiser and the CDC has found that childhood trauma, such as abuse, neglect, or household disfunction, greatly increases long-term health risks and likelihood of early death. A while back, Dr. Nadine Burke Harris' TED talk on this topic made the rounds on Facebook, and it is worth watching to understand the significance of this research:

Being at the conference, studying this in class, AND thinking about early childhood trauma at work has been a bit overwhelming this week (like it may actually be giving me hives), but it is so important, I have to lean into it (while also planning some self-care activities for the weekend).

My ACEs score is "only" two. I am not in the high risk category, but two was a lot for me growing up. As I have mentioned before, my dad had a psychotic break when I was seven, and was diagnosed with schizophrenia thereafter. What followed were tumultuous years of my parents trying to continue their lives, but pretty much constantly fighting, and eventually separating. The details are hazy for me, but the emotional imprint is strong.

Regardless of what was happening at home, I learned very quickly not to make a big deal of it and for a long time I was successful at doing that. If you had asked me in high school if I had ever experienced trauma, I would have said no. I didn't view my life that way. Looking back, I think it was because I didn't want to be different or cause trouble. I saw what my parents had been through, and knew that adding my stuff onto that heap would have been too much for them to bear.

In not dealing with my issues, I rationalized some pretty weird things. I had periods of my adolescence where I cried by myself daily. I had an unshakable sense that if anyone really knew me, they wouldn't and couldn't love me. I felt at my core that I was damaged. I didn't reach out for help because it felt normal to me and I felt I had nothing to complain about in my life. I had friends, got straight As, was president of Key Club, and had a loving boyfriend. Very normal. That's what was important to me, as it is for most teenagers.

In my junior year of college, I finally talked to a therapist about how I was falling into a depression but didn't understand why. She asked about my life, my history, and my family, and I told her about my childhood, breezing through it as I had learned to do so well. I remember her saying "wow, that is a lot for a child". I'm pretty sure I told her it was no big deal. It's not like I was desperately poor, or had been abused. She told me about ACEs, and connected so many dots for me about how I had internalized a lot of the shame that my family had around mental illness, and that my sense of powerlessness as a child turned into an unhealthy sense of guilt. It was remarkable how she held a mirror up to my life and allowed me to see things in a way I had never considered. Honestly, no one had ever given me space before to say that life was hard. The message I got at home, from friends, and in the media was to be grateful and look on the bright side. 

Naming trauma as trauma helped my healing immensely. It was like science had validated the emotions I had stuffed away, and I was finally given permission to access those feelings in broad daylight for the first time. In the ACEs field, the saying is that instead of asking "what's wrong with you?", we should be asking "what's happened to you?" I wish a caring adult in my life-- a teacher, a pediatrician, a school counselor, a friend's parent-- had known to ask me that at seven, instead of me waiting for a therapist to do it at 20. I don't blame any one individual, but I do look back and see a system of support that failed me. No one could have prevented my trauma, but so many people could have helped me cope with it and feel less alone. When I look back at myself as a small child, I feel sad for the burden I was asked to shoulder.

Recognizing ACEs is not about perpetuating victimhood. In fact, now that I can recognize my trauma, I have much more space to recognize my resilience and yes, be grateful for the factors that protected me from further harm. My mom did the very best she could to hold down the fort. She worked so hard to provide economic stability for us, and we were able to live in a safe community with high-quality schools. I was never bullied, assaulted, or physically harmed in any way. I am extraordinarily lucky to have been able to go to college, and access mental health services, as well as academic and professional opportunities that would lead me to be where I am now, thinking about improving public health systems and advocating for better prevention and early intervention. I am committed to this work because I know not every child was as lucky as me.

Of course this is not just a professional pursuit. As a parent I think about healthy child development every day. It's easy to feel overwhelmed by the knowledge that these early years have a lasting impact on her ability to thrive as an adult. What we try to focus on is giving Holly a sense of security, stability, and belonging every day within our home. I know, even though it is so painfully hard to accept, that I cannot prevent all types of trauma from affecting her life. Our house could be demolished by an earthquake. She could be sexually assaulted by a drunk classmate someday. Her dad or I could die prematurely. We don't know. But each day, we have the opportunity to deposit just a little more resilience into her brain bank by telling her we love her, listening to her feelings, giving her a routine, and modeling healthy habits and boundaries. I am not an expert by any means, but this is what feels right to me and helps me sleep at night. 

Talking to other parents who have experienced childhood trauma, I've been told that having a child can be healing. I now see that to be true as well. Not because I expect my child to help me through my emotional baggage, but because it's a chance to try to break the cycle. My parents lived through war, immigration, family separation, mental illness, and who knows what else. They didn't talk about it much, but that pain was part of our family anyway. They couldn't support me through my trauma because they were not supported themselves. I have so much compassion for their struggles, and I also hope not to perpetuate that legacy. By dedicating time, space, and intention to healing myself, I can heal my relationships going forward too. I can be strong for Holly instead of expecting her to be strong for me. Feeling prepared and able to do this gives me joy, pride, and hope for her future, as well as my own. Adversity is not destiny.