02: The Light Before the Silence

I loved my childhood.

I mean really loved it.

I had one of those rare, golden starts in life—the kind you don’t even realize is golden until much later, when everything feels different.

We lived in a small town in New Mexico. It was warm. Safe. Familiar.
I rode my bike through neighborhoods where I knew every house.
I played sports year-round.
I had a crew of best friends. We had sleepovers, snuck snacks, talked about girls, played too many video games, and laughed ourselves sick.
And when the sun came up, we’d go out and do it again.

I was good at sports. Like really good.
Our soccer team was one of the best in the state.
I played baseball, basketball, football.
I was the kid who wanted the ball when the game was on the line.
Not because I needed to win—but because I loved the moment.
That quiet before the play. That pressure. That clarity.

And when I wasn’t playing sports, I was skateboarding, bike riding, or making music.

Music was a family thing.
My mom was a music teacher.
My siblings and I all learned to play—because in our house, you participated in beauty.
You didn’t just listen.
You joined in.

I loved my family.
I knew—even as a little kid—that I had something special.
We weren’t rich. But we were together.

My mom had the kind of warmth that made people feel safe.
She was kind, present, patient.
She believed in creativity.
She made room for art and noise and motion.

My dad was intense.
East Coast through and through. Born in Philly. Raised in Jersey. A former cop who found his way into the car business.
He had rules. He had standards.
He was tough—but he was also hilarious.
Nobody could make my mom laugh like he could.
And when she laughed—really laughed—the whole room lit up.

I loved watching them together.
It felt like love that had history. Love that had weight.
And even when things were hard, I believed they’d always come out the other side.

I had an older sister.
She was smart, strong, rebellious in ways I didn’t fully understand yet.
She got in trouble sometimes—which, if I’m being honest, made my job easier.
Because I watched. I learned.

Be the good kid.
Stay under the radar.
Get good grades.
Perform well.
Don’t cause problems.

It was transactional, in a way.
But it worked.
You got praise. You stayed safe. You didn’t get the belt.

So I became the golden boy.
Not just good—I went above and beyond.
Star athlete. Straight-A student. Yes sir, no ma’am.
I lived to make my parents proud.
And I loved the way it felt when I did.

I had no reason to believe anything would ever change.
No reason to think this good life—this tight family, this safe home, this love—could unravel.

Everything was right.
Everything made sense.

This was before the move.
Before the silence.
Before the sickness, the shame, the shadows.

This was when I still believed life was fair.
When I still believed I could protect the people I loved by being good enough.

Sometimes, I still see him.
That kid.
Running across a soccer field with the sun going down behind him.
Skinned knees, loud laugh, full heart.
Not yet broken. Not yet afraid.

And I wonder if he’d recognize me now.