I Wasn't Taught to Stay — Part Two

The Continuing Memoir of Moves, Mistakes, and the Long Way Home (Moves 9–15)

I didn’t move 33 times because I was adventurous. I moved because the ground was never solid. Because men yelled. Because the rent was too much. Because survival came in cardboard boxes and last-minute decisions.

This is part two of my origin story. If you’re new here, welcome. This isn’t just a memoir. It’s a map. Of how I became the woman obsessed with finding peace within.

Home 9Del Mar, 1993 — Age 13

Surprise! That living situation didn’t work out either. We were invited, but never welcome. He was Swedish. Controlling. Cold in a way I didn’t have the words for back then. Not physically abusive like the men on TV — just withholding. Like love cost extra, and we could never afford it.

He gave me his office to sleep in, but didn’t clear the furniture. Didn’t clear the air either. I could feel it every time he walked by. He hated me. I wasn’t his problem, but I was in his space.

And my mother — God. She tried. But one night he started yelling at her. And I stood on the other side of that thin door, arguing with myself like it was a debate team: Go in. Stay put. Say something. Stay safe.

I did eventually open it. And I screamed, “Stop yelling at her!” from the deepest place a child can speak. From the place that already knew what it was like to be unwanted and still refuse to be erased.

We were gone a few days later. Another suitcase packed. Another start over. But that scream? That was the first time I ever knew my voice could move furniture.

Home 10Del Mar, 1993 — Age 13

On short notice, my mom found us a room for rent. Christine’s house. One room. Shared kitchen. Temporary pretending to be a plan. That same familiar ache: We don’t belong here. We weren’t stable. We weren’t easy. We were the kind of tired you can’t nap your way out of. The kind of broke that seeps into your nervous system. It didn’t last more than two months. Another exit. Another box. Another lesson in how to leave quietly.

Home 11Del Mar, 1993 — Age 13

She couldn’t afford an apartment in Del Mar. Not on her own. Not after everything. That poor woman. I see her now, more than I did then. Somehow, she found a way. A roommate. A traveling businessman who was gone enough to make it work. A two-bedroom split between hope and exhaustion.

We stayed the year. Twelve months of borrowed privacy and held breath. It wasn’t peace. But it was enough. No yelling. No sudden exits. No one packing in the middle of the night. We made it through that lease. And at the time, that counted as a win.

Home 12Del Mar, 1994 — Age 14

A one-bedroom opened up in the same complex. And for the first time in a long time… we didn’t leave. No boxes. No shared kitchen. No strangers sleeping in the next room. Just her. And me. And a door that stayed closed to the outside world.

It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t big. But we made it a home. For two whole years, we shared a room and my body started to believe in permanence again. I began to unpack more than just clothes. I let myself breathe. There are still things I don’t remember, but I remember the stillness. And when you’ve lived in chaos your entire life, that’s the kind of thing that leaves a mark.

Home 13Marshfield, MO, Summer 1996 — Age 16

A sophomore going into junior year, this smarty pants thought moving in with her father, new stepmom, and their new baby might be the answer. It wasn’t. But it was important.

135 acres. Middle of nowhere. Town 10 miles out, barely a few thousand people. No friends. Nowhere to run but inside myself. So I wrote. I wrote everything. Every feeling, every kiss, every lie I told to feel more alive… documented in my journal, which I kept folded under the mattress. My sacred confession booth.

Guess who found it? Guess who made me read it aloud to my father? The shame hit harder than the punishment. Because the threat wasn’t just grounding. It was exile. I was told I was being sent to live with my grandparents. And in that moment, I realized what I’d done wasn’t just reckless. It was unforgivable.

I regret nothing. I did end up burning the journal in front of them. I’ve had a hard time writing since… hence, the importance of this.

Home 14Del Mar, CA, 1997 — Age 17

Turns out, my mom was still my soft landing. One call and I was back in San Diego. This time, she had a two-bedroom — a few miles down the road, just far enough to feel like a new start. A place for me to finish high school and pretend I hadn’t just tried to swap my life for a different one.

It was quieter than before. More stable. But by then, I had the taste of freedom in my mouth. And that apartment? Let’s just say I got really good at sneaking out of it. I learned how to time the creaks in the window frame. How to leave the screen semi-off its track. How to run toward danger — mostly always a boy I shouldn’t have been with — just so I could feel like I existed somewhere. It wasn’t rebellion anymore. It was survival in low-rise jeans and a crop top.

Home 15Monterey, CA, 1998 — Age 18

The day after high school graduation, I packed up my hand-me-down car and drove my happy little 18-year-old ass to Pacific Grove. To live with a boy I met in Hawaii two years prior. Because of course I did.

When he left on a surf trip, his friends handed me something stronger than good advice. Mescaline. Weed. Wide open windows into a dimension I didn’t know how to close. For two weeks, I floated. The ocean told me stories in ripples. The trees whispered gossip about the humans. Time folded in on itself. I saw heaven in sidewalk cracks, cloud shadows, and rolling sand dunes.

Until I didn’t. Until the last night, when the sky split and something darker came through.

— AudraHealing out loud, so you don't have to heal in silence.