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Where I Was Held

At my first open mic, I read two pieces. One about learning to see. One about where I was safe. This post is about that second story, the summers with my dad that gave me air, and the dogs who have been my constant witnesses. It is about how we survive by finding places and beings that hold us when the world does not.

BEHIND THE BOOKROOTS & LINEAGE

Rowena

1/18/20261 min read

Last night, I stood under café lights and read something I almost kept to myself.

It was an interlude about the summers that saved me, long drives with my dad, open windows, laughter in a van, a childhood pause from chaos. Those weeks taught my body something my life had not yet offered: what safety feels like, what it means to belong without earning it.

And then it carried forward into the dogs who have walked beside me as an adult. Brody, who arrived already carrying storms and became our sentinel and soul-companion. Charlie, who stayed, who stood watch over the empty spaces Brody left behind, who taught me what love sounds like when it is wounded. Farrah, who came when we were finally ready, stitching the quiet back together with her small, bright presence.

It is a piece about light. Not the kind at the end of the tunnel, but the kind you carry. The small, steady flames that say, you are safe here. You are allowed to rest.

My hands shook. My voice quivered.

Standing there, I realized these stories are not just mine. They are bridges. They say to someone in that room, and maybe to someone here, you are not strange for needing a soft place. You are not broken for grieving this deeply. You are human.

I am glad I chose to be seen.

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