In Silence Was My First Language, you share your story of overcoming growing up in poverty, experiencing neglect, violence, hunger, and terror at the hands of your stepfather. What inspired you to share your story with readers?

For most of my life, silence was survival.

As a child growing up in poverty, surrounded by neglect, violence, addiction, and fear, I learned very quickly that speaking the truth often came with consequences. So I did what many children in those circumstances do: I stayed quiet. I carried the secrets. I carried the shame. I carried the burden of protecting adults who never protected me.

What inspired me to write Silence Was My First Language was realizing that I was not the only person carrying those burdens.

After getting sober in 2017, I began looking honestly at my life for the first time. I realized that many of the struggles I experienced as an adult—fear, self-doubt, anger, perfectionism, and the need to constantly prove my worth—had roots in the experiences of my childhood.

I also realized that there are millions of people who grew up believing they were alone in their suffering.

This book was never written to settle scores or seek sympathy. It was written to tell the truth.

I wanted readers to see what childhood trauma can do to a person, but more importantly, I wanted them to see that trauma does not have to be the final chapter. We are not condemned to become the worst things that happened to us.

If someone picks up this book and sees a piece of themselves in my story—if they feel less alone, more understood, or more hopeful about their own future—then every difficult page was worth writing.

Ultimately, I wrote this book because silence protected my pain for decades. Telling the truth is what finally helped me heal.

Your portrayal of your stepfather is deeply unsettling. How difficult was it to write about him, and did your understanding of him change while writing the memoir?

Writing about my stepfather was difficult, but writing about my mother was often even harder.

This memoir was not written in a year or two. I worked on this book for more than fifteen years. During that time, I revisited these memories countless times, questioned them, examined them, and challenged myself to tell the truth as accurately as possible.

My stepfather was a man I feared throughout much of my childhood. He brought violence, intimidation, and instability into our home. I have not spoken to or seen him in more than fourteen years, and the passage of time has not changed my view of what occurred. The fear was real. The abuse was real.

What became more complicated over the years was my understanding of my mother.

As children, we expect someone to protect us. When that protection doesn’t come, the wounds can be profound. Much of my reflection during those fifteen years was spent trying to understand not only the actions of my stepfather, but also the choices my mother made and the environment that she allowed to exist around her children.

Did my understanding of them change while writing the memoir? To some degree, yes. Time gave me perspective. I came to understand that both of them were flawed, damaged people carrying burdens of their own. But understanding is not the same thing as excusing. I can acknowledge their struggles while still being honest about the pain their choices caused.

What changed the most over those fifteen years was my understanding of myself. I began to see how deeply childhood experiences shaped my beliefs, my fears, my relationships, and my sense of worth.

Ultimately, this book is not about my stepfather or my mother. It is about a child trying to survive circumstances he did not create, and the long journey of learning that your past may shape you, but it does not have to define you.

The recovery sections avoid easy redemption. Why was it important to present recovery as ongoing work rather than a final victory?

Because that has not been my experience.

Many stories about recovery end with a dramatic breakthrough, as if healing is a finish line that can be crossed once and for all. Real life has never worked that way for me.

I have been sober since July 7, 2017, and I can tell you that recovery is not a destination. It is a practice. It is a series of choices made day after day, year after year.

One of the reasons I wanted to avoid an easy redemption story is because I think it does a disservice to people who are struggling. Recovery did not magically erase my childhood. It did not eliminate painful memories. It did not instantly repair relationships or remove every fear, insecurity, or flaw.

What recovery gave me was something far more valuable: the opportunity to respond differently.

Today, I have choices that I did not have when I was trapped in addiction. I can choose honesty over deception. Responsibility over blame. Growth over avoidance. Service over self-destruction.

The work is ongoing because life is ongoing.

There are still challenges. There are still difficult days. There are still moments when I have to confront old wounds and old ways of thinking. The difference is that I no longer run from them.

If there is a victory in this book, it is not that I was healed. It is that I stopped surrendering to the things that once controlled me.

Recovery is not about becoming perfect. It is about continuing to move forward, one day at a time, no matter where you started.

After telling the truth so fully in this memoir, what truths are you still learning about yourself? 

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that self-discovery doesn’t end just because you’ve written a memoir.

For a long time, I believed that if I could understand my past, I would somehow solve myself. What I’ve learned instead is that understanding is not the same thing as mastery.

Even after writing this book, I continue to learn how deeply childhood experiences can shape the way we see ourselves, the way we relate to others, and the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what we deserve.

I am still learning that strength and vulnerability can coexist. For much of my life, I thought strength meant enduring pain in silence, handling problems alone, and never letting anyone see me struggle. Today, I understand that real strength often requires honesty, connection, and the willingness to ask for help when it is needed.

I am also still learning to separate my worth from my accomplishments. Much of my life was spent chasing achievement, proving myself, and searching for validation. Success can be rewarding, but it cannot heal wounds that were created long before success arrived.

Perhaps the greatest truth I am still learning is that healing is not a finish line. It is a lifelong process of paying attention, remaining honest with yourself, and continuing to grow.

At fifty-five years old, after nearly nine years of sobriety and more than fifteen years spent writing this book, I can say with confidence that I know myself better than I ever have before.

I can also say that I still have more to learn.

And I think that’s a good thing.

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