The youngest
Being the youngest in my household…
I often kept to myself. And I liked it.
I read books. I played Barbies for years. I wrote to pen pals and stayed to myself.
I was not the best student, but I showed up and I was a good kid.
From that quiet place, I watched everything.
I watched my other siblings drift away.
I watched my brother leave the house, and I remember what it did to my mother.
And I can only imagine what it did to her when she watched the son she bore transition to a female.
That is something I had to adjust to.
I remember a brother playing with me as a child, and now I am dealing with a sister.
That’s been hard.
Because I follow God’s laws, and I believe God created man and woman to procreate.
In my faith, when someone is gay or changes their gender, I see that as deep confusion — the kind that can shake a family. There’s so much sadness in not knowing one’s self.
And I don’t say that from hate. I say it from grief.
Because I’ve lived mental illness myself. Bipolar. The ashes. The cocoon.
I know what it’s like to not recognize yourself. To lose years. To need God, therapy, and the right meds to find your way back.
So when I see family members hurting, searching, changing — I see pain. I see confusion. I see the fallout of a world that’s forgotten order.
Then you have my other sibling — who never knew her own father, and carried so much hatred for our mother because of a divorce in Oregon.
Divorce tears down families. Remarriage tears down families.
And then you have racism — the light vs. Black — that continues to exist even within Black communities.
So much loss. So much silence. So much I had to witness from the corner with my books and my Barbies.
But here’s what being the youngest taught me:
You can be quiet and still see everything.
You can be the “good kid” and still carry wounds nobody named.
You can love your brother, and grieve the sister.
You can love your mother, and mourn what divorce did to her.
You can believe God’s order, and still have compassion for the chaos.
I’m not here to throw stones. I’ve been called delusional. I’ve been left out of obituaries. I’ve been in the ashes.
I know what it’s like to be misunderstood.
So to my family — to my mother, to my siblings, to the brother I remember and the sister I’m learning:
I see you. I love you. I’m still here.
I’m still the youngest who kept to herself.
But now I have wings. Now I have a voice.
And my voice says: Brokenness doesn’t have to be the end of the story.
God provided a way out for me — through Pittsburg, through Eugene, through Salem.
Through Trileptal. Through therapy. Through metamorphosis.
From ashes… to wings… to truth. 🦋
And the truth is: I’m still becoming. We all are.
With love,
Cathryn
