Growing up in Meridian, Idaho, during the 90s, my father was well known by the police department and is instantly recognizable by his thick, dark hair and the biggest permed mullet in town. His signature look included a full beard and a cigarette in hand. He loved laughing at his own jokes and flirted shamelessly with anyone who gave him a passing glance. He was a regular at the Sunshine restaurant in Meridian and Eddy’s Diner in Boise. He especially loved Eddy’s—it’s where he met wife #4.

As a long-haul truck driver, my father was rarely home. His preference for Pepsi over water likely contributed to his kidney stones, a condition exacerbated by his time on the road. One day, he was pacing around the house, crying in pain from another bout of kidney stones. I was fighting with my stepbrother over a ball, and when my dad sided with him, I got angry and slammed the ball on the kitchen floor.

In an instant, everything changed.

He came unglued—slapping me across the face, then backhanding me. I stood there, stunned. I had known discipline before—belt spankings, being slapped in the head—but this felt different. That particular act of violence shifted something inside me. I started expressing my anger towards him through journaling, which my stepmother at the time found and used as a weapon against me (more on that here).

Spiraling into drug abuse and Violence

After his marriage to wife #4 ended, things got worse. My dad spiraled into drug use. We moved back into the two-bedroom trailer on my grandparents’ property. My aunt and I had the bedrooms, and my dad claimed the couch. Together, they used drugs heavily, and my father became paranoid, violent, and neglectful.

Sometimes we had food, sometimes we had power and running water, and sometimes he was nice.

They weren’t ashamed to hide their drug use. White lines of meth, marijuana, and all kinds of paraphernalia were left on the table, the dresser, or stuffed in the couch.

My aunt spent most of her time locked in her room, only emerging to pick the sores on her face. One night, she emerged excitedly to show off a strange contraption she had built with wheels, a bike chain, a light bulb, and other baubles. Somehow, it turned the light on without electricity. It was genius and heartbreaking all at once. Eventually, she stole a car and went to prison for grand theft auto—leaving me alone with my father.

He started taking me with him to buy drugs, leaving me for hours in strangers’ homes while he got high. Sometimes, the adults would comment on my body, leaving me feeling uncomfortable and exposed. He met women through the local newspaper’s dating section. Often, he’d go home with them, leaving me to sleep on their couch, floor, or in their basement. Once, I woke up in the bed of one of his failed dates, her arms and legs draped over me. I was only 11 years old—my daughter’s age now.

These memories are seared into my soul. But they’ve also shaped me into the mother I am today.

I’ve made it my mission to give my children the life I never had. A life of love, protection, and safety. I want their memories of childhood to be filled with joy, curiosity, and a deep sense of being cherished. And now, as an adult, I recognize the importance of turning inward—to care for the 11-year-old girl still inside me. The one who was neglected, abused, and forced to grow up too soon.

She deserves space to rage.
To cry.
To be a kid.

What does it mean to “be a kid” as an adult now? Reparenting is part of healing the inner child. It’s giving yourself everything that you needed as a child that you didn’t get: love, respect, safety and security. It also means, allowing yourself to BE a kid. Doing kid things: climbing trees, dancing to the music, being silly with your kids, and whatever your inner child is calling you to do in that moment. It’s important to listen and follow through, creating trust and confidence within yourself.

All the tools you need, exist within you! Sometimes you just need a facilitator to help you discover your greatness that has been deeply buried through all the trauma and limiting beliefs. I would love to work with you. To start your journey to healing your inner child, please visit my booking page by clicking here.

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Stay tuned for the next post, where I’ll share how my father’s violence escalated—and the pivotal moment I made the decision at 12 years old to leave his house and go live with my aunt and uncle.

Much love,

Beth