Friend of Mine – The cradle wasn’t her fault. The shame still sticks.
She was born detoxing.
Tiny fists clenched.
Tiny lungs fighting.
The first thing she learned to survive was withdrawal.
The nurses called her “tough.”
The doctors called it “unfortunate.”
The papers called it a tragedy.
Her family just called it “her mother’s doing.”
But when she grew up?
She called it hers.
By ten, she thought pain was a personality.
By thirteen, she stopped asking questions.
By fifteen, she was fluent in self-blame.
Every relapse in her family,
Every angry voice,
Every foster placement,
Every overdose she witnessed—
She thought she caused it just by existing.
She read online once that babies born addicted can have long-term effects.
She bookmarked the article and cried herself to sleep.
It didn’t mention shame.
The world says:
“You’re a survivor.”
She hears:
“You were broken before you even had a choice.”
You don’t outgrow that kind of origin story.
You repurpose it.
She teaches now—kindergarten.
No one knows.
But every time she cradles a child having a meltdown,
She whispers the words no one ever gave her:
“You didn’t cause this. And you don’t have to carry it alone.”
